


vesey naal iilahkun

by softEldritch (assbutts)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Crossover, Dragonborn - Freeform, Multi, Rating May Change, Warnings May Change, also i'm fucking with history and some aspects of magic, i'm taking a lot of liberties with the skyrim universe, irregular updates, like super irregular, mostly de-videogaming it, the map is a looooot bigger than the actual skyrim map
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:03:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2024424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assbutts/pseuds/softEldritch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[ON INDEFINITE HIATUS]</p><p>Upon waking up in a wooden cart with shackles around his wrists and a chipper Nord named Alfred speaking of Sovngarde across from him, Arthur Kirkland has submitted to the fate of losing his head in an undignified death. He never thought he'd fear his own demise; he's certainly experienced enough death to last a lifetime. But there's a strange feeling of dread as he sets his head down on the chopping block.</p><p>Then a Dragon appears, saving him from his execution only to try to kill him moments later. And it turns out that perhaps he isn't as much a stranger to Skyrim as he'd believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a thing. beware that i suck at things and this will probably not update very quickly. so, uh, yeah. enjoy.

Arthur was woken roughly by a sudden jolt, his tailbone slamming hard against an unforgiving wooden bench as his eyes flew open. Big mistake, it seemed. The bright light of day blinded him and he winced, shutting his eyes and hunching over as best he could to keep the nausea at bay. He felt . . . well, he felt like absolute shite, and his brain was so muddled he didn’t have a single clue where in the Void he was. A worrying realization.

It wasn’t until he tried to reach up and rub away the pressure building in his head—and subsequently discovered that there were cold chain cuffs around his thin wrists—that he started to panic. A flex of his fingers confirmed his fears; his magic was buried, trapped beneath whatever enchantments these cuffs had.

Slowly, he blinked his eyes open. “Hey, he’s awake!” The voice was strong and too loud in Arthur’s sensitive ears. “Welcome to the waking world, buddy!” Still squinting, Arthur turned to the source of the voice.

It was a young man, probably only a couple years younger than Arthur, with twice his bulk. Blue eyes stared curiously from behind a slightly worse-for-wear pair of wire-rimmed glasses. And then Arthur was treated to a wide grin that _absolutely_ did not make his cheeks flush.

“Y’alright there, pal?” the Nord—because a boy with hair that golden and eyes that blue couldn’t be anything but—asked, leaning forward. Arthur didn’t answer, only glared. How could someone possibly be so cavalier about—well, about whatever was going on here?

Arthur glanced around. He was seated in a carriage with three other men, one of them with a gag and dangerous pale eyes. The man glanced at him, eyes glinting, and Arthur resolutely looked down at his feet. Which, like his wrists, were bound by two metal shackles chained to a hook in the wooden floor. Oh, bollocks. Arthur wasn’t one for dealing in absolutes, but even he knew this situation could not likely get much worse.

“Hey?” Oh, and there went that bloody Nord again. This time Arthur snapped his eyes up at him, clenching his jaw. The boy just grinned. “So, you know what’s happening?”

Arthur sniffed, lifting his chin as much as the ache in his neck would allow. “I might ask the same of you,” he said icily, narrowing his eyes at the chipper grin the boy was sporting. “How can you possibly be so jolly about our impending execution?” Because Arthur knew exactly what was coming, had seen carriages like these rolling in and out of towns. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d done—but, considering his line of work, it couldn’t be something the Empire was too fond of.

The boy shrugged. “Sovngarde awaits,” he said, still with than infuriatingly bright grin on his face. “I mean, nobody wants to die, and I’d rather go out in battle, but battling forever in the Hall of Valor sounds pretty freakin’ cool.”

“You’re an idiot.”

The boy didn’t seem perturbed. Arthur winced at his own internal word choice; the Nord had the attitude of a boy, the brightness in his eyes, but with the muscles bulging in his prisoner’s rags Arthur had to concede he certainly did not have a boy’s body.

“What’s your name, man?”

“Excuse me?” Arthur glared at him. “We’re going to die, and you want to ask me my name?” A particularly sharp bump in the road had him bouncing in his seat.

“I’m Alfred,” the Nord said, flashing another toothy grin. He reached out with his bare foot, nudging Arthur’s pale ankle as much as possible with the chains impeding his movement. “And if we’re gonna die, might as well go out with a friend by your side, right?”

“Bugger off,” Arthur snapped, tugging ineffectually at the cuffs on his wrist. Gods, he _was_ going to die. The thought made something swell in his throat, sweat pooling in the small of his back. This wasn’t at all how he’d wanted to go; his head on a chopping block, wrists and magic bound, no chance of fighting to keep his pride. It felt as though the breath had been punched out of him. Instead of looking at Alfred again, he carefully inspected their two other carriage-mates.

The man with the gag around his mouth—where had Arthur seen him before? The pale violet of his hard eyes seemed familiar.

“That’s Ivan Braginski,” Alfred said, drawing all the attention to himself yet again. Arthur glared at him despite the panic rising in his chest. _Braginski_. Jarl of Windhelm and hater of Merkind. So Arthur hadn’t been imagining the contemptuous looks at his half-Elven ears then. “They say he blasted the Jarl of Solitude clean apart with his Voice.” Arthur couldn’t tell of Alfred was impressed or displeased.

“See, he actually _committed_ a crime!” This voice was a new one, from the fourth member of their carriage. Arthur turned to see a young man, ruddy-skinned and lanky. The boy’s knee started bouncing, his chain jostling and clanking with each frantic movement. “I told ‘em I was innocent, but they don’t listen to me.” Beady eyes darted back and forth. “I don’t wanna die.”

Arthur sneered. “Have some courage, child,” he said, even though his own fear threatened to overcome him. “If we’re going to die, it won’t do to panic and disgrace yourself before whoever your Gods may be.”

The boy just stared at him, wide-eyed. Arthur sighed. “Easy for you to say, Wood-Elf,” Arthur nearly corrected him on his lineage, but decided it ultimately wasn’t worth it, “I saw your clothing they put in that trunk in the other carriage.” The boy was shaking. “You worship Sithis. You’ve actually committed crimes. I’m innocent, I didn’t do anything, _I’m innocent_!” The boy was starting to shake now. Arthur felt almost sorry for the boy’s weakness. He didn’t deserve such an end.

The carriage was silent but for the boy’s terrified whimpers. Arthur closed his eyes, breathing in through his nose. It smelled like woods, like grass and trees and nature. He supposed this would be his last chance to taste the world.

The noises around them began to change; swaying trees turned to muttered whispers and muffled speaking. Arthur opened his eyes to see they were approaching a village at last. He did not know which—although from their surroundings he suspected they were in Falkreath Hold—but in the end it would not matter so much what ground his head fell upon.

“Time to face the fire,” Alfred murmured, reclining in his seat with the ease only a practiced warrior can manage. Arthur remained stiff, steeling himself for his fate, trying to ignore his pounding headache. Then Alfred’s eyes—bluer than any sky—turned on him. “Tell me your name, and maybe we can hang out in whatever comes next.”

Arthur wanted to tell him that he wouldn’t be joining Alfred in Sovngarde. He was, after all, not a Nord. But Alfred seemed genuine, and Arthur couldn’t deny a man his last request. “Arthur. Arthur Kirkland.”

“Nice meeting you, Arthur,” Alfred said, his voice soft. Maybe he understood that they’d arrived on death’s doorstep.

Too much emotion. Arthur blinked and looked out, watched as people gawked from their balconies and peered from their doorsteps. Bunch of bloody twats. Arthur’d never understood the appeal of execution as entertainment. Even when he’d been with the Dark Brotherhood, bloodshed had never been his sport.

“Rather unfortunate we have to die,” he found himself saying. “There’s quite a bit I haven’t done yet.” More sexual exploits than a few rushed handjobs with his College classmates came to mind. Well, opportunity lost there.

“Yeah,” Alfred said, and then their carriage was pulling up to a stone wall next to several others. Arthur glanced over at the executioner’s axe, glistening with steaming blood, and felt sick to his stomach. “Good luck, Arthur.” Someone snapped and the chains tethering their feet to the ground dissolved.

“Alright, off ya get,” came someone’s rough voice. “Don’t try anythin’, we’re prepared for it all.”

Ivan Braginski was the first to climb down. Arthur dimly heard his sentence, barely paying attention until finally they were calling out, “Wood-Elf! Get off, ya coward.” Arthur grit his teeth; he’d have to inform them of his true heritage.

“You’ve been sentenced guilty of worshipping Sithis and killing a Lord—“ ah, yes, now he remembered. It wasn’t his fault if someone gave him a contract; there wasn’t much else he knew how to do, other than stealing. “Take your place over there.” And then he was marching over to the crowd of prisoners clustered around a chopping block.

Unconsciously he took his place next to Alfred. The Nord elbowed him in the side, offering a grin when Arthur looked up to glare at him. “See you in the next life?” It was almost like a question.

Arthur felt disoriented, unsteady, like someone had pulled the world from under his feet and he was floating in the nothingness of the Void. His head was aching, he realized dimly. The colours around him blurred and sharpened, a kaleidoscope of chaos and blood. It wasn’t even the thought of dying that frightened him so much. Something in the air tasted wrong.

He didn’t flinch when the first criminal was beheaded. Nor did he even grimace when the head of the second rolled to a stop at his feet. If there was a single thing Arthur Kirkland was `accustomed to, it was death.

“Wood-Elf!” Oh, were they talking to him? Arthur took a quick glance at the crowd; none of the criminals were even Mer. Alfred nudged his shoulder in a gesture that was probably meant to be comforting. Arthur resolutely didn’t look back. Head held high, eyes fixated sharply on the executioner—let it never be said Arthur was a coward—he marched to the chopping block.

“Any last requests?” Someone asked above him, even as he knelt down. His vision swam before his eyes and Arthur briefly considered asking for a pint of mead before he shook the thought away.

“Let’s not prolong this any more than necessary,” he said, hearing the twinge of venom in his voice even through the muffle of his sore head. He extended his neck, letting it rest on the wooden chopping block as he gazed up at the stone tower in front of him.

A deep rumbling filled the air, terrifying and violent, and Arthur shuddered.

“What in the Gods’ name was that?” Someone shouted. The rumbling sounded again, reverberating in Arthur’s bones, chilling him deep. He wanted—he wanted out, he wanted away. Something dangerous was coming, something _awful—_

“Nevermind. Get on with the execution.” Arthur’s eyes widened. He watched, unable to even blink for the horror coursing through his veins like mud, as the executioner’s bloody axe was raised. Then there was a roar, and a dark shape blotted out the sun as it descended upon the tower. As it landed there was a terrible crash and it _screamed_ , the word washing over Arthur like a flame, knocking the executioner’s axe away from his exposed neck.

“What the—what in Oblivion is that?!” People were screaming, panicking. Arthur dimly realized he could barely move his arms, could barely even breathe. He _ached_. “Someone, anyone— _do something_!”

Then Arthur blinked, and a little bit of the world came back to him. The figure on the tower was—was a _Dragon_. A great, bloody beast, black as the night and viciously scaled like some terrible armour. And it was opening its jaw; Arthur knew, in that instant, what it was about to do, and rolled off the chopping block to curl around himself as a wave of blazing energy crashed into his back.

He screamed, unable to hold it in as flames licked at his clothes, but didn’t let the pain stop him from getting up. Head pounding, limbs stiff, Arthur carefully pushed himself to his feet.

Surrounding him was chaos. The village was on fire, people running and screaming and nocking arrows as they tried to fight the thing. Arthur blinked, wincing at the soreness in his head, and locked his eyes on the tower across the courtyard. Safety. Now he just needed to drag himself over there.

He was barely two faltering steps toward it when he heard someone call, “Arthur!” Without thinking he turned back, searching out the source of the voice, eyes widening in surprise when he saw Alfred.

Alfred, who had a massive wooden trunk balanced on his shoulder like it was nothing. He looked slightly disheveled, glasses crooked on his face and golden skin dusted with soot, but otherwise he seemed to be in much better shape than Arthur.

“C’mon, dude!” Alfred called, jogging over to where Arthur was—as though he _didn’t_ have a chest on his shoulder that probably weighed more than Arthur. Alfred’s face was smudged with dirt, but he still flashed a grin. “Let’s get inside!” Arthur nodded, limping over to his original destination with as much speed as his tingling legs could muster. Surprisingly, Alfred didn’t once leave his side, despite the fact that it was obvious he could move much faster if he wanted to.

When they eventually stumbled over—well, it was only Arthur doing the stumbling, really—Alfred shoved the door open with his shoulder, ushering Arthur inside and following right behind. Once he’d dumped the wooden trunk on the floor with a loud, splintering thud that nearly made Arthur jump, Alfred slammed the door shut behind them.

Legs no longer able to hold him, Arthur sunk to the floor with his legs crossed. He blinked, trying to calm himself down. The screaming of the Dragon was muted. He felt a semblance of control return to his mind and he blinked again, reaching up with still shackled hands to rub at his eyes.

He was still attempting to breathe properly when Alfred slumped down in front of him with his long legs stretched out. The Nord sighed, blowing a strand of short hair out of his eyes. Then his eyes met Arthur’s. “We need to get these chains off.” As if to demonstrate he raised his wrists, which were still bound by a black chain.

Arthur nodded. “Well, my magic is useless, so what do you propose?” He didn’t really mean for it to come out so acidly, but found he couldn’t muster up the will to care too much.

“You’re a mage?”

Eyes sharp, Arthur fixed Alfred with the harshest glare he could manage. “Do you _honestly_ think this is the best time to be making conversation?”

Alfred just laughed. “Alright, alright.” There was silence for a couple minutes. Arthur took the time to try and remember how to breathe properly. Then Alfred stood, loping over to the wooden chest and kneeling down in front of it.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asked, not daring to focus his eyes properly. Even just staring straight ahead made his head ache.

“I’ve got an idea.”

After a few moments rummaging around, Alfred came back into Arthur’s proper field of vision, wielding a massive greatsword with a blade like ice. Stalhrim. Eyes widening fractionally, Arthur watched carefully as Alfred took a few practice swings, his wrists still chained together. Finally, Alfred’s eyes met his. “Do you trust me?”

Arthur shook his head. “No.” But he stretched out his arms anyway, separating his wrists as much as possible before the chain pulled taut. As an afterthought he added, “try not to cut off my hands, they’re quite useful to me.” Alfred just laughed.

“Promise,” he said, voice joyful like they hadn’t just narrowly escaped death at the hands of a Dragon. Then there was the sound of a blade cutting clean through air, and the loud scraping of Arthur’s chains being severed.

Gasping, Arthur clenched his jaw against the sudden rush of magic, bubbling beneath the surface of his skin. The cuffs rubbed at his wrists painfully. He drew back, focusing intently on the dark metal, the sigils and runes inscribed into surface. Nothing happened. “Not enough,” he said, shaking his head. The magic was _right there_ , waiting for him to reach out for it and let it go . . . but he couldn’t quite manage to reach it. “It’s these bloody cuffs.” He tugged at them, trying to push the cuffs over the slim bones of his wrists, only succeeding in scraping away a layer of skin. “Fuck!”

“Hey, calm down, Arthur—“

“Shut up!” Arthur yanked ineffectually at the cuffs. He was starting to panic. The skin of his wrists was beginning to get raw, now, and it stung whenever he made an aborted attempt to free himself. “How in all of Tamriel can I stay calm when there’s a bloody _Dragon_ outside and my magic is blocked?!”

“Arthur!” Suddenly there were two large hands around his wrists, stopping the fierce, frantic tugging. “Dude, you’re just gonna hurt yourself if you keep doing that.”

Calm. He needed to calm down. Something was breaking his cool demeanor, tearing away the serene composure that had kept him alive for all twenty-three years of his life. Trembling slightly, Arthur carefully pulled his hands away from Alfred’s grip. He didn’t need to be babied, handled like a child. He was not _weak_.

“I’m alright,” he said, his voice much smoother than it had been just a minute prior. He took a deep, settling breath, then glanced around for something useful. “Don’t suppose you have any ideas to get these off.”

Alfred shook his head. “Sorry, man, I got nothing. D’you think you can slip your hands out?” The ‘ _carefully_ ’ was implied in his narrowed blue eyes. Arthur took a moment, pulling the cuff up his wrist until the jut of his thumb bone prevented it.

“No.” The raw skin beneath the cuffs was starting to bleed; nothing much, but enough to sting whenever Arthur so much as flexed his wrists. “I have a Dragonbone dagger, if you’re handy enough with a blade.” Under normal circumstances, Arthur would never let a stranger near his body with any sort of weapon—but these weren’t exactly normal circumstances.

Alfred nodded, grinned – Arthur hated that grin. “I’ll be careful, don’t worry.” At least Dragonbone would slice clean through the cuffs. As Arthur waited—still cross-legged with his arse on the stone floor, sweat making the rags cling to the small of his back—Alfred searched through the wooden chest. Gods, his head was _pounding_. There was a Dragon roaring within Arthur’s skull, wings beating in time with each loud thump of his heart. “Dragonbone, you said?”

“Yes,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. He let his eyes flutter shut, leaving the other senses to show him the world. If he focused, he could hear screaming outside; it was utter chaos, people were dying. When Alfred’s footsteps sounded, he just stretched out his arms again. “Be quick.”

As it turned out, Alfred was _quite_ deft with a blade. Arthur barely felt the blade touch his skin before Alfred made another cut and the first cuff fell from his wrist. The other clattered to the ground not ten seconds later.

Opening his eyes, Arthur gingerly encircled his wrists, rubbing gingerly at the raw skin. With a blink they were healing, although his magic still felt weak after being contained.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding at Alfred and reaching out to touch the first two fingers of each hand to Alfred’s cuffs. They fell away and dissolved into ash on the stone floor.

Alfred grinned. “Hey, no problem!” He stood, and for the first time Arthur noticed how much space the man took up. He needed merely to stand and half the room was yielding to him. “C’mon,” Alfred said, sauntering over to the wooden chest. “We should put on our armour.”

Arthur nodded. He’d never been much for idle chit-chat; and, after all, he couldn’t be blamed for keeping his mouth shut under the circumstances.

Almost immediately after Arthur nodded, Alfred ripped off his shirt. Literally. The seams tore as he tugged it over his shoulders, letting the ruined item flutter uselessly to the floor. He was a warrior, that much was certain; his muscles were obvious and broad, nothing like the slim, well-packed muscles Arthur hid in his small frame. When he bent over to retrieve a deep blue undershirt, the muscles in his back flexed and pulled.

Blinking furiously, Arthur pushed himself to his feet and marched over to the wooden chest. His attire had to been in here somewhere. Once it was all extracted from the mess of clothing articles, he stripped of the prisoner’s rags, leaving himself in only the thin shorts he always wore beneath his armour. And then, resolutely _not_ glancing behind him at Alfred’s most likely near-naked form, Arthur started to dress himself in the same, well-practiced routine he always did.

First came his Dark Brotherhood armour; it was so well crafted, the perfect fit to his body and softer than cotton, that he didn’t need anything underneath it. Next came the boots, which he buckled on without looking. It was such a monotonous action. Dressing always allowed him a few moments to suspend his thoughts, allow his body to just go through the motions it knew so well. After his boots he pulled on his long-sleeved tunic, arranging the thin, colourful fabric to sit properly on his slim shoulders, tying a braided leather belt around his waist. The tunic served more the purpose of hiding his Dark Brotherhood armour than anything else.

“So, you really are Dark Brotherhood?” Alfred sounded as though he was just making casual conversation. Arthur sighed, turning around to see the Nord half-dressed in beautiful, silvery armour. Besides underclothes he wasn’t wearing anything but the cuirass and the pieces below the waist, but Arthur could tell just by looking that it was incredible well-made and fit Alfred’s form perfectly. It wasn’t until Alfred coughed that Arthur realized he’d been staring.

Flushed, Arthur glared at him. “No. Not for two years.”

“But you were?”

Arthur didn’t answer immediately. He turned again, reaching down to scoop his gloves from the ground, tucking the ends of his loose sleeves in as he pulled the gloves on. “Yes.” The leather of his gloves stretched when he flexed his fingers; they were incredible quality, as was anything made by the Dark Brotherhood.

“What was that like?” Apparently Alfred wasn’t perturbed by Arthur’s one-word answers.

As he was clipping the hooded cloak around his shoulders, Arthur looked back. “What do you _imagine_ it was like?” The drawl of sarcasm in his voice was painfully obvious. “I killed people by the name of the Night Mother.” He took a few moments to collect his weapons; the two daggers and his trusty bow. Thank Sithis they’d kept his quiver of arrows intact.

Nodding, Alfred finished up the straps that held his pauldrons in place. “Sounds cool.” He rolled his neck, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling, and then flashed another grin that lit his face like sunlight. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. If I’ve got the town right, there’s a tunnel under the cellar of the Inn that we can use to get the hell outta here.”

That made Arthur pause. He turned, sharp eyes fixed on Alfred’s face. “You’ve been here?”

The Nord shrugged. “Maybe? I’ve been a lot of places, man.” There was a deafening roar from outside, the smell of charred flesh wafting in through the arrow slits. Arthur winced; he didn’t quite know why. “Guess we gotta face that Dragon sometime. You ready, man?”

Arthur nodded, even as bile rose in his throat. “We ought to leave another way,” he said, glancing at the door. “Empty spaces such as that courtyard are the perfect hunting grounds for a beast that travels by air.”

The look Alfred flashed him was curious. “You’re pretty smart, Arthur.” Without giving Arthur a chance to respond he grabbed his hand, tugging him up the winding stairs leading to the tower roof. “I think we can climb to the next—“ a crash knocked them both off their feet, sending Arthur sprawling down the stairs with Alfred rolling over him.

The hard edge of a stone step slammed into his spine and he cried out, blood spitting from his lips as their next tumble hammered the base of his skull into the ground. “Fuck!” He didn’t notice until the confusion in his brain started to die down that he could barely breathe. Choking on hot gasps of air, Arthur shoved at the weight on his chest only to discover it was Alfred—and the man was curled over him, as if to protect him. “Move, you bloody oaf—“

Something roared, tingling in Arthur’s spine, and then his discombobulated world lit up in a blaze of fire. He just barely put up his hand, enclosing himself and Alfred in a protective shield as Dragon-fire surrounded them. Despite the magic barrier it was scorching; sweat collected at his temples, ashy-blond hair clinging to his face. Arthur gritted his teeth and toughed it out.

Apparently the Dragon lost interest, for only moments later the stream of fire died down to a much more manageable blaze. Smoke billowed around the tower, blocking out the light that filtered in through a new hole in the crumbling stone wall.

“Get _off_!” Arthur coughed out, his voice rough from the smoke. He shoved weakly at Alfred’s mass—Gods, the man was probably nearly double his weight—and tried to breathe through the smog in his lungs. “Alfred, please, I can’t _breathe—_!”

Sweet relief flooded his lungs as Alfred rolled off of him. Arthur lay there for a moment, trying to regain his breath, swirling a hand absent-mindedly to clear the air around them of smoke.

“You okay?” Dimly, he became aware that Alfred’s hands were on him, one under his back, a source of warmth right between his shoulder blades, the other brushing his messy hair out of his face. “We took a rough fall. I think you fared worse than I did, actually.” The boy had the gall to look sheepish.

Arthur glared, knocking his hand away and painfully pushing himself into a sitting position. “I did have a three-hundred-pound, armoured prat land on me several times, so I’d say yes, I certainly fared worse than you.” Pain vibrated in his lower back. “Bollocks.” With a glare at Alfred, he curled his hand around the golden Restoration magic and pressed it to his heart. “Restoration magic isn’t simple, you know.”

Slowly the pain ebbed away, replaced by the warm, golden tingling sensation of his own magic mending the aches in his body. Arthur sighed, eyes fluttering shut. He always felt so tired after using Restoration magic on himself.

“Well, come on then,” he said eventually, pushing himself to his feet. “The Dragon knows we’re here, now, and I don’t fancy another encounter with the damn thing.”

One hand on the sword at his hip, Alfred inclined his head towards the hole blasted through the tower wall. “You wanna try our luck through there?” Apparently not wanting to wait for an answer, he started climbing the steps, armour barely clanking. Arthur stayed back a few feet; he didn’t want a repeat performance.

“So, how does that escape route look?” Arthur called up once Alfred had gotten a good look out the hole.

Alfred beckoned him up. “Pretty good, actually. We can climb onto the roof of this house and then jump inside, how’s that?” Upon joining him at the hole, Arthur inspected the path. The house’s roof seemed stable enough. The clay tiles, at least, weren’t crumbling completely. “Well, let’s go!” Without further consideration Alfred leapt onto the adjacent roof. He stopped for a moment, stabilizing, before turning back with a blazing grin and a, “well, c’mon, Arthur!”

Before leaving the relative safety of the tower for the open air, Arthur glanced around at the chaos surrounding them. The skies were dark with clouds, fire brimming in the vicious swirls of smoke; fire covered the ground as well, the buildings all burning, some even collapsed into rubble. Soot swirled through the air like a dead snowstorm; flakes stuck to his pale eyelashes and he blinked them away. He saw people running, or pointing bows to the sky—thankfully, however, the Dragon was nowhere to be seen.

Deeming it safe enough—or at least not instant death—Arthur jumped carefully onto the roof, boots easily finding purchase in the unstable roof tiles. The moment he was steady Alfred jumped down into the house through a gaping hole in the roof. Arthur followed.

“So, where exactly is this underground pathway of yours?” Arthur asked, brushing dust and soot from the rich green fabric of his cloak.

A noncommittal grunt. Arthur glared at Alfred, who was currently gazing out the ruined walls of the house. They stayed like that for a moment; then, Alfred brushed imaginary soot off his gleaming armour and marched decisively to the door furthest from where they’d entered. “This way! Definitely this way, man.”

Arthur raised a single eyebrow. “And you’re absolutely sure.”

Unfortunately, Alfred’s response was a shrug. “Yeah! Probably. Dude, it’s been a while since I’ve been here.” He swung the door open. “And that’s if I’m even thinking of the right place.”

Well. That settled it. Arthur was most certainly going to die today.

Still, he couldn’t see any other viable choice (well, besides running back out into the courtyard) and just followed Alfred’s confident gait. They stuck close to the buildings, flames licking at their feet from the burning rubble on the streets. Finally Alfred ducked into a near-destroyed building; all that was left of it were a few wooden supports and a crumbling stone wall on one side.

“In here, probably,” he called back, immediately marching over to what was left of the counter. Arthur approached more cautiously, one hand on the Dragonbone dagger strapped to his thigh, the other preparing a bolt of ice just in case. “Lemme get this thing open,” and Alfred bent down, pulling on the entrance to a cellar that appeared to be welded shut. With a grunt of effort and a final burst of power from his legs, the wooden planks around the trapdoor splintered and cracked. Alfred threw away the cellar door as though it weighed nothing.

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur tightened his grip on his dagger. “You’re remarkably strong,” he said casually, peering down into the dimly-lit cellar. By Alfred’s ridiculously smug grin, he knew that had been a mistake. “Oh, don’t let it go to your head,” he snapped, and pushed past the great oaf to slip down the ladder leading into the cellar.

The air was dank and musty, stained with spilled ale. Arthur wrinkled his nose. A few flickering candles revealed a collapsed wooden shelf; bottles were scattered in pieces on the cobbled stone floor, creating pools of wine so red it looked like blood. The candles also outlined a ragged tapestry that seemed to be fluttering from an unsourced wind.

“Looks like your passageway is here,” Arthur called, not even bothering to turn around. He could hear Alfred climbing down the ladder behind him, armour barely clinking, and then the young man was brushing past him with a heavy pat on the back that would have sent lesser men without Arthur’s training tumbling. As it was, Arthur only jerked at the contact and glared at Alfred’s broad back.

Marching right up to the tapestry, Alfred ripped it away uncaringly and flung it across the room. His grin was brighter than the candles when he turned to Arthur. “Haha! See, I told you it’d be here!”

“Don’t be so proud of yourself,” Arthur said under his breath, adjusting the belt sitting above his hips over the tunic. He followed Alfred as the man ducked into the small passageway.

It opened into a cave. Arthur shivered slightly; he’d grown up in a warm palace in Cyrodiil, and even three years at the College of Winterhold hadn’t improved his ability to retain heat. Instead of complaining about it he cupped his hands, a small, steady flame forming in his palms.

“This way,” Alfred was saying, greatsword slung over his shoulders as he marched down a pile of rubble. The stones were damp, a trickle of water running down to join with a small underground stream that seemed to perfectly bisect the cavern they were in.

Arthur quickly and carefully made his way down the pile of rocks to solid ground, the edges of his boots splashing in the clear, cool stream. “You’d better not be leading us nowhere,” he said, glancing around at the high, unusually smooth ceiling of the cavern.

“Don’t you trust me?” That smug tone was infuriating.

Arthur glowered. “Not in the slightest.”

Despite his icy response, Arthur really had no choice but to follow Alfred. At the very least the man now seemed to know exactly where he was going, turning down thin pathways and wading through the occasional pool of knee-deep water. They’d been travelling for about an hour—with nothing but the glowing mushrooms and Arthur’s Magelight to guide their way—before Arthur heard a familiar sound and rushed forward to clamp a hand over Alfred’s chattering mouth and drag him into the shadows.

After a quick moment of Alfred’s confused struggling, he stilled enough for Arthur to trust him not to blurt something out and reveal themselves. He gingerly lifted his hand from Alfred’s mouth, bringing it back down to his side.

Leaning over him in the small patch of shadows – Arthur had quickly extinguished his Magelight – Alfred raised his eyebrows. “Dude, what the fuck?”

Arthur’s ears twitched. “There’s someone up ahead.” He motioned for Alfred to be quiet, listening for the noise he’d heard that would confirm his suspicions. Ah, there it was. The clack of a necklace made of human bones. It was a specific sound; he’d learned early on in his travels across Skyrim to stay away from it. “Wildlings.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> figured i'd post another chapter, although i haven't actually worked on this fic in a while.
> 
> hm. gotta start getting back into it. yeah, gonna warn y'all, i'm absolutely awful at keeping up with writing. especially lately, because for some reason my flow just ain't cuttin' it.

Alfred’s eyes widened, shining in the dim light of the glowing mushrooms. “Wildlings?” he said under his breath, eyebrows drawing together. “Are you sure?”

Inclining his head towards the source of the noise, Arthur fixed the Nord with a hard stare. “Listen carefully. Surely you know the sound of their,” he wrinkled his nose, “ _human bone_ necklaces.” Anyone who’d spent even just a season travelling Skyrim knew how to detect the danger of Wildlings.

Wildlings were, in the simplest of terms, savages. But unlike most savages, who could be beaten with strategy and poise and simple _training_ , Wildlings were ferocious. At times Arthur—whenever he’d been unlucky enough to encounter them—thought they were more beast than human. Years of living in the wild, feasting on human flesh . . . it affected them.

“So, wanna take ‘em?” Somehow Alfred _didn’t_ find his own words completely incredulous. Arthur stared at the young man, hoping his contempt was obvious in the narrowing of his eyes and the twist of his open mouth.

“You can’t be serious.”

“What, you’ve never fought them before?” There was that smug grin again. Arthur was going to stab Alfred in the mouth at some point. “Dude, if we know how many there are, we’ll know if we’ve got a shot.

Well, that Arthur could figure out. He cast a simple spell to detect life—Alteration had always been his strongest school back at the College—and contained a shudder as the spell washed over his eyes. Beyond their tunnel, figures glowing in a sickly red moved around, some dancing, some huddled around what Arthur assumed were either fires or flesh. Gods, there were at least two _dozen_.

He blinked away the spell. “Don’t suppose you know another way out?” he hissed, glancing around them, ears twitching as he listened. If the Wildlings heard them—or, Gods forbid, _smelled_ them . . .

Alfred shook his head. “Sorry, no. So, how many of them were there?” He leaned down slightly, eyes wide and blue, burning with an intensity Arthur rarely saw. The fire of a warrior. As Alfred bent, Arthur realized for the first time their proximity, and stepped back slightly.

“Nearly thirty.”

To his surprise, Alfred grinned. “Sweet! Gotta love a challenge!” Hand on his greatsword, he took a step towards the Wildlings. “Betcha I get more kills than you, Art!”

Arthur’s eyes widened. “Are you _mad_?!” he shouted. The clinking of bone necklaces stopped. Oh fuck. “We need to _leave_ ,” he said, reaching forward to grab Alfred’s arm, but the man just danced out of his grasp and drew the greatsword from his broad back. “You idiot! We can’t fight them!”

“It’ll just be a little harder, now that we don’t have the element of surprise.” Arthur could hear them moving now, snickering and coughing, whooping calls echoing in the cave.

“Alfr—“

“Look, it’s these guys—a bunch of _humans—_ or the Dragon.” Alfred stared at him hard, raising his eyebrows. “Which one do you wanna fight.”

Begrudgingly, Arthur pulled the bow from his back, nocking it with one of his glass arrows. “If we die, I swear to Azura I will find a way into your Hall of Valor and _drag you into the Void_.” Eyes trained on the narrow cave tunnel, waiting for the Wildlings to appear from behind the sharp turn, Arthur breathed.

He was injured and his head still pounded, but he’d beaten worse odds. Battling was something he could do on instinct. Arthur certainly knew how to kill people, how to slip away from a blade and duck under a mace and fire an arrow into a man’s eye. But; he also knew the Wildlings. Every encounter with them was bound to be unpredictable. They followed no logic, no set of guidelines. Order meant nothing to them.

“They won’t be able to attack us all at once here,” he realized aloud, staring at the slim tunnel.

Alfred swung his greatsword. “That’s the plan,” he said, his voice filled with confidence and energy. It was obvious from the tone of his voice, the set of his broad shoulders, the cavalier cock of his head; Alfred was comfortable on a battlefield.

Arthur shot the first in the forehead. She collapsed before even making it properly around the corner. He nocked another arrow, letting it whistle past Alfred’s head to strike another Wildling in the throat. Thick blood bubbled up around the arrow, nearly black in the dim light.

Eventually, they realized rushing through wasn’t getting them anywhere. There was a hiss, a sliver of smoke, and then Arthur’s world was filled with a painful blaze.

“Alfred, get back!” he yelled, dispelling the worst of the fire with a flick of his wrist. But he couldn’t keep them at bay forever; already there was another stream of fire, so ferocious and angry that Arthur could barely control it. “I told you we should have left!” Alfred started backing away, fire licking at his armour where Arthur couldn’t keep it back. The moment Alfred was behind him, Arthur spun and shoved the man into a sprint.

“You’re the one who alerted them!”

“It was _your_ idea to fight them in the first place!” A couple stones slid under his feet and he nearly stumbled, catching himself with a palm on the cave wall just in time. “I had every right to get frustrated—“

Arthur knew pain. He’d been coming home bruised and bloody since he was a child and just learning how to use his bow. The years hadn’t been kind to him; they were neither kind nor nasty to the people of Tamriel, but nobody got special treatment. And yet, even after many aches and pains and bumps and bruises, pain never lessened.

“Fuck!” This time he did stumble, falling to one knee as his leg gave out. Burning pain blossomed from a point just above the back of his left knee. Dammit, the Wildlings _did_ have a penchant for using poison-tipped arrows.

“Arthur?” Arthur blinked away the foggy pain that swamped his vision. He was still in danger. No time for rest, or feeling. But he couldn’t run, that much he knew. So instead he did the next best thing.

Turning back to the oncoming wave of savages, Arthur raised both hands, curling them around the most powerful Destruction spells he knew. The Wildlings gave no indication of noticing; they were howling and salivating and scurrying like beasts, shoving at each other in an attempt to reach him, eyes glowing faintly in the most inhuman way.

He cast, not stopping, never relenting as the Wildlings screamed and burned. The pungent smell of burning flesh cloaked the air but Arthur did not let up. He _refused_ to die on his knees in a bloody _cave_ , of all places. He had _dignity_.

In the end, even that didn’t kill them all. Spent, Arthur collapsed to one side, trying and failing to support himself on an elbow. The rocks of the cave floor were rough and cool against his face as Alfred beheaded every remaining Wildling.

He handled the weapon like an extension of his own arms. More than a tool; a part of him. As Arthur watched, he noticed. Alfred was reverent towards the blade, never letting it hit the cave walls unnecessarily, swinging it with a deadly grace, the silvery colour of his armour tinted green and splattered with inky blood. Then Arthur’s vision started to warp and twist. This was not good.

When the head of the last Wildling thumped to the cave floor, Arthur blinked away the fog to see Alfred standing there with his chest puffed out, greatsword dripping with blood from where it hung across his shoulders.

“Oi!” Grimacing at the weakness of his voice, Arthur tried to snap his fingers. He barely managed to press the pads of his fingers together before he lost feeling in them completely. “A little . . . help, if it’s not too much to ask!”

Alfred turned back to him. “Oh, shit!” Eyes wide, he raced over, falling gracelessly to his knees next to Arthur’s body. “Woah, you okay?”

“Do I—“ A vicious cough cut him off. Arthur curled up even further, stomach wrenching painfully as blood splattered from his lips. Dammit. His eyes fluttered shut, unable to stay open any longer. “Damn you, Sithis.” Somehow, against all odds, he’d gotten out of an execution, survived a Dragon attack, landed himself with someone capable of fighting a horde of Wildlings—and now he was to die because of the poisoned arrow sticking out the back of his knee.

There was a hand on his leg. Arthur tried to open his eyes, but he couldn’t see much more than a dark blur. The leg was starting to go numb, anyhow, so he just lay still and let it be. “Sorry,” Alfred said, his voice sounding tinny, and then—

“ _Fuck!_ ” Sharp pain exploded in the back of his knee. “What the bloody fuck was that for?”

There was the sound of the arrow clattering against the cave wall. “Quit talking, you know what Wildling poison does.” Ah, yes, Wildling poison. It made bloodflow slow, eventually made the heart stop; but what usually killed a person was the thick fluid that filled their lungs. “Can you stand?”

Arthur would have glared if he could open his eyes.

“Shit, right,” Alfred chuckled, and then Arthur felt his centre of gravity shift. The feeling in his limbs was nearly gone. He had a day, at most. “We aren’t far from Riverwood, so don’t die on me.”

They couldn’t make it to Riverwood within a day. Arthur had no idea where they were, but all the towns near Riverwood were at least fifty hours of constant travel on foot. Carrying someone would most likely increase that twofold.

“You still awake?”

Feebly, Arthur shook his head. “Leave.”

There was the jostling movement of footsteps. “That’s what I’m doing.”

Idiot. “Leave. Me.”

Alfred’s laughter was loud, echoing off the walls of the cave as he marched onwards. “Well, I wouldn’t be much of a hero if I did that, now would I?” Gods, this boy was brainless. Arthur was dead weight now; with that Dragon still terrorizing the landscape, he’d end up getting Alfred killed. “Don’t worry about it, bro.”

Void descended around Arthur.

♠       ♠       ♠         

When Arthur came to, it was to fresh air. “What . . . ?” The word was so quiet it barely counted as a whisper, but apparently Alfred heard.

“Home free. Gimme a sec, wouldja?” Shifting Arthur’s weight, Alfred removed one of his arms. He could hold Arthur up with one arm—and Arthur was small of stature, but not without muscle. He was barely lucid, but he could still see that was impressive.

A piercing whistle filled the air. Arthur would have winced, but the muscles in his face were too exhausted.

“Just you wait, Arthur.” He was jostled again. “Don’t die on me yet, alright?”

Arthur could make no guarantees.

♠       ♠       ♠

He woke to no pain. Curious. Was this the Void, then? Some sort of afterlife? It sounded tranquil; the barest of footsteps, accompanied by thick draped fabric swishing along a planked floor.

Arthur opened his eyes slowly. The light was dim, perhaps a single flickering candle in the far corner of whatever room he was in. Despite the lack of fire it was warm.

When he made an attempt to sit up, there were immediately hands at his shoulders, pushing him back down. Panic crested in his chest and he pushed away, the heels of his palms weakly connecting with soft fabric as he scrambled up against a wall. Danger. He was in danger. This was an unfamiliar place, and there was a languidness to his body that could only mean he’d been poisoned.

“Don’t be afraid,” a cool voice said. It soothed the fear like a cold stream over a burn and Arthur relaxed, blinking harshly as his vision became clear. He was in the room of some home, a crack of sunlight visible from beneath the thick curtains covering the window. “You’re safe here.” The woman who’d spoken was quite obviously some sort of mage. She was dressed in long robes, dark hair pulled up into a complicated loop. “I have healed you. Shall I send in your companion?”

Companion. _Companion_? Arthur never travelled with a companion. He worked alone. Apparently the woman took his silence for affirmation, as she swiftly left the room and returned with a broad-shouldered Nord covered in beautiful armour. _Alfred_.

The memories came rushing back; a horse-drawn carriage, kneeling in rough dirt with his neck spread out on a chopping block. The _Dragon_.

Arthur winced, pressing his eyes closed as he massaged the skin of his temples. Even just thinking of the Dragon made his head pound. Something warm trickled over his lip; he pressed a finger under his nose, opening his eyes to see a thin smear of blood.

“Fuck,” he murmured, more incredulous than anything. He hadn’t had a nosebleed since before he’d been to the Mage College.

A weight dipped his bed and he glanced up to see Alfred sitting next to him, grinning. “Hey, you’re alright! Hah, see, I told you we’d get here in time!” His smile was smug and self-satisfied. Arthur couldn’t bear to look at it any longer.

“How?” he asked, glaring even as he pressed a hand to his nose. “There are no villages less than day from Riverwood on foot.”

“Well, duh.” Alfred stood abruptly, stretching his arms up towards the low ceiling of the room. “I called my horse. I knew she’d be hanging around nearby, she’s never far when I need her.” Still grinning, he reached over to ruffle Arthur’s sweat-damp hair. “Dude, we made it here in fifteen hours. Plenty of time for our pal here,” he jerked a thumb at the Mage, “to heal you up good as new.”

“Hm.” Still holding one hand to his nose, Arthur gestured at the Mage. “A handkerchief, if you please.” His voice was muffled and nasal, and gritty from having slept.

The Mage left briefly, returning with a square of soft blue cloth. “Here you are,” she said, her voice still smooth as silk. She bowed her head to both of them. “I’ll give you a moment.” Arthur wanted to speak up, point out that him and Alfred weren’t actually travelling companions, but she was gone before he could even open his mouth.

Alfred sat on the edge of Arthur’s bed again, the wooden frame creaking under the combined weight of him and his beautiful silvery armour. “So,” the Nord began, blue eyes warm in the dim light, “how you feeling?”

“Not dead.” The nosebleed seemed to be slowing, although there would be no saving the handkerchief. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the smell of blood—and something more, a thick, powerful scent that seemed to be imbued within his blood. It made his head ache, so he changed the course of his thinking. “Why are you still here? I’d assumed you’d be long gone by now, off fighting drunkards or whatever it is your like do.”

Alfred shrugged. “I wasn’t just gonna leave you here in the company of some stranger.”

Raising an eyebrow, Arthur leaned forward just slightly. “ _You_ are a stranger.”

“Yeah, but I already saved your life a couple times.” The corners of his mouth twisted up in a grin, skin crinkling around his bright blue eyes. “I mean, I’ve already pretty much proven I’m a hero.” A beat of silence. “Also, I’m not gonna undo all my hard work getting you out of there alive just so some small-town Mage can slit your throat and take your shit.”

“How courteous.” His nosebleed had finally stopped, thank Azura. Grimacing at the scent, he dabbed away the last of the blood and dropped the handkerchief unceremoniously on the bedside table. “Well? Are you going to be off now? I’ve healed completely.” Which was a lie, honestly; Arthur could feel the remnants of poison coursing through his veins like a slow burn, and he’d felt a steady pain in his head since the Dragon attack. But he’d survived through worse, and he wasn’t keen on staying in a stranger’s home for any longer than necessary.

Alfred ran a hand over the hilt of his greatsword. “I’m staying until you’re ready to leave, dumbass.”

Nose wrinkling in a scowl, “ _excuse me—_ “

A great sigh cut Arthur off. “Dude, just lemme talk, alright?” Still glaring, Arthur snapped his mouth shut. After a few moments of silence he gestured impatiently for Alfred to continue. Alfred grinned, all white teeth and bright eyes. “So. I propose we stick together from now on.”

Oh no. “I travel alone.” Denying him immediately was the easiest way. Still, Arthur felt he had to explain himself. “I don’t work well with others. I appreciate you saving my life, I really do, but I’d much rather be on my way.”

And Alfred laughed, hair glowing in the thin patch of sunlight as he threw his head back. Gods, he was fucking _bizarre._ He never seemed to be offended by anything Arthur said. People were often offended just by being in Arthur’s presence for too long; he’d long ago mastered the art of silent condescension.

“How many Dragons have you killed on your own?”

Arthur gaped, eyes wide, before he shook his head roughly and spat, “what do you think? There haven’t _been_ any Dragons for ages, you mindless brute!”

“C’mon, dude, you _have_ to see where I’m going with this.” Arthur remained silent; he suspected he knew exactly what Alfred was implying. He simply did not want to acknowledge it as truth. “We’re obviously both capable fighters, but we’d do shit-all against a Dragon. If you follow me, we can protect each other!”

“Follow _you_? What in bloody Tamriel makes you think I’ll be following _you_? I’m the elder here, don’t for a moment forget that!” When Alfred just laughed, anger burned within Arthur so strong he had to fist the bedsheets to contain it. Teeth clenched, he fixed Alfred with a bitter glare. “You may be strong, but I’d rather take my chances alone. You’re obviously impulsive, brash, and _not incredibly bright_.”

“Hey, shut the fuck up,” Alfred said, a smile in his booming voice. “I’m smart as shit!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Be that as it may, I’ll survive as I always have: on my own.” Ignoring the pressure in his head, he tossed the covers aside and began to stand. His legs felt weak, his system not yet recovered, but standing made him feel capable. He’d always hated being bedridden.

Wherever they were—Arthur suspected it was a private home, as there was a patchwork quilt hanging on the far wall—it was uncomfortably warm. Arthur rubbed at his neck, fingers dipping beneath the collar of his Dark Brotherhood uniform to feel the sweat-damp skin stretched across his spine.

Somehow, until then, it had escaped his notice that he was pantsless.

Flushing bright red, Arthur stalked past a cackling Alfred to snatch up the pants draped across a chair. Thank Azura he was still wearing his underclothes.

He redressed to Alfred’s giggling, mindful of the bandages wrapped tight around his knee. There was a sharp pain there, but the bandages were clean, so at the very least it was no longer bleeding.

“Dude, your skin is so white it’s blinding. And I grew up in Windhelm. I’m pretty well-acquainted with snow.” Arthur refused to dignify that with a response. He finished belting his pants before turning around, a scowl on his face. Alfred reminded him of an eagle; he sat and preened, somehow looking regal even as he grinned smugly. “Your tunic thingy is there too.”

“I saw it!” Arthur hissed, spinning around again to roughly tug the tunic over his head and let it drape over his body. “And would you stop looking at me?” Alfred’s only response was an ear-grating laugh.

When he was fully dressed, Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “Why are you still here?”

Alfred shrugged. “Because I’m serious about us travelling together, Arthur. It’ll be a lot less dangerous.” Arthur almost mentioned that, seeing as they didn’t trust each other, it would be invariable _more_ dangerous, but instead kept his mouth clenched shut as he busied himself reattaching his weapons. “Also, I totally noticed how the Dragon made you feel.”

“What, terrified?” Arthur turned, newly attached cloak flaring in a wide arc behind him. Upon seeing Alfred’s smirk, he rolled his eyes. “Please, the only reason _you_ weren’t afraid is because you’re bloody mad.”

Thinking the conversation to be over, Arthur fiddled with the broach that pinned his cloak around his shoulders. It nestled in the hollow of his throat, an intricate network of silver lines flecked with black diamonds and tiny sapphires. Quite possibly the nicest thing he owned that hadn’t been stolen or otherwise illegally obtained. Arthur gazed down at it, rubbing his thumb over the thin settling of dust.

“Actually, I was talking about how it gave you headaches and made you panicked.” Arthur’s head snapped up. He locked eyes with Alfred; the arse was just staring at him, mouth stretched wide in a toothy grin. “What? I’m perceptive. And people who were in the Dark Brotherhood don’t just get panicked in battle.” He was right, he was absolutely right, and it drove Arthur mad. How dare this plucky, self-proclaimed hero be honest-to-the-Gods _intelligent_?

“Leave.”

“No.”

Fingering the handle of his blade, Arthur clenched his jaw and raised his chin. “Leave, or I’ll be taking your horse.”

Alfred, damn him, shrugged. “She’d never let you ride her. Even if you used your magic Bosmer powers,” he wiggled his fingers, “she’s loyal. So good luck with that!”

The pointless arguing was aggravating the pain in his head. Arthur squinted, the lights flaring painfully. Yet he _refused_ to admit Alfred was right. Something . . . something had _happened_ to him when the Dragon had shouted that first time. His judgement had been impaired and he’d been _terrified_.

Because even though the Dragon had only screamed, Arthur had _known_ it was speaking to him.

“I don’t need your help,” he said, sounding breathless.

“Pretty sure it’d be more mutually beneficial than one-sided aid.” Alfred stood from his seat on the bed, once again filling the entire room with his presence. Arthur felt caged in, constricted from all sides by the sheer _volume_ of this man. “C’mon, Artie, do you _really_ wanna get roasted alive by a Dragon?”

 _That_ was the last Arthur could take. “ _Artie_?” he screeched, gripping the handle of his Daedric dagger. “What in the _Hell_ kind of name is _that_? Do you fancy yourself a bloody _jester_?”

A laugh erupted from Alfred and he doubled over, clutching at his abdomen. His broad shoulders shook, polished armour sending flashes of warm light across the room. “Oh man, your _face—_!”

He was too loud. Arthur pressed a hand against his pointed ear, wincing at each scrape of Alfred’s metal gauntlet against his breastplate. Alfred’s laughter was a bellow in Arthur’s ear, low and deep and resonating. “Would you _shut up_!” Arthur hissed, pressing the heel of his hand into his ear. When Alfred’s laughter only continued Arthur stumbled, using the chair behind him as support before pushing himself off to stagger over to the bed.

His collapse onto the bed seemed to sober Alfred. “Woah, what’s wrong?”

Arthur shook his head. “Something. I don’t know, this isn’t exactly normal for me.” Something roared in his head and he grimaced, teeth clenched to prevent any sounds from escaping. Suddenly his throat was burned scrub, dry and dusty. “Water,” he croaked. “Get me water, please, Alfred.”

Was this some sort of aftereffect of the poison? Arthur had never encountered anything even remotely similar, but the Wildlings were unpredictable, and one could never count on them to keep anything about themselves consistent—including their poisons.

He hadn’t even registered Alfred leaving until the man returned. Arthur writhed on the bed, arms curled around his head, but the roaring and screaming never stopped, never relented.

“Arthur!” A warm, heavy hand on his shoulder. Arthur focused on it, let it ground him, latched onto the unfamiliar feeling of human contact and dragged himself back to consciousness. “Arthur, here, water.” Alfred manhandled him into a sitting position. “Drink,” he said, pressing the cool rim of a wooden cup to Arthur’s lips, tipping it to let him drink. Arthur swallowed greedily, quenching the fire in his throat.

When the water was gone he finally breathed. His chest heaved, the tight belt around his waist constricting each breath somewhat. “Bloody Sithis,” Arthur coughed, voice still weak, “what was that?”

His mind was clear, void of the roaring it had been filled with only moments ago. Arthur felt . . . centered, grounded. Something was tying him to this plane. It kept him from drifting away.

“You alright now?”

That something was apparently Alfred’s hand. Still gasping for breath, Arthur allowed his eyes to flicker up to Alfred’s face. The man was bent over, his concerned eyes mere inches from Arthur’s.

“I—“ Eyebrows furrowed, Arthur glanced down at himself. No damage. He was still perfectly intact. “I’m alright.” As a general rule, Arthur didn’t like being in positions of weakness. Even when around people who wouldn’t harm him, it was still allowing his welfare to be placed in the hands of others. But this was just another mark on the list of how many times Alfred had helped Arthur today.

Alfred, bugger him, was right. They needed to stay together to keep each other alive. Whatever was happening to Arthur, it was completely debilitating. He would need someone to help.

“I’m alright,” Arthur said again, shrugging Alfred’s hand off his shoulder. The lack of weight made him feel light-headed. He shook it off, standing on slightly unsteady feet. Alfred’s hands hovered nervously. Waiting to catch him if he fell, Arthur realized. Strangely, the idea didn’t make him feel weak.

He strode confidently out the door, passing from the bedroom into a common room. A fire crackled in the hearth, heating a pot of soup. The Mage was idly stirring every so often with a flick of her wrist and a flash of magic.

“So you’re well again,” she said, setting down the thick book she’d been reading. “Be off, then.”

Arthur nodded curtly. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. When her eyes had returned to the book, he snagged her coin purse from the bookshelf.

Outside, the weather was pleasant. Somehow Arthur had expected it to be leaning a little towards fire and brimstone. There was a gentle breeze, filling his lungs with clean air, while the river flowed nearby and the sound of it rushing saturated the air.

“Dude,” Alfred said from behind him. “You just took all her money.”

Arthur couldn’t be bothered to care. Some instincts could never be willed away. “She’s a Mage, she’ll find a way to earn it again.”

And now came the time to have a talk. Arthur turned, arms crossed, and narrowed his eyes at Alfred. He opened his mouth to speak—and said nothing. Damn Alfred. Damn him and his cocky surety, his glorious self-assuredness.

“Arthur?”

Arthur swallowed. Then he blinked, lifted his jaw, and spoke, “I . . . Gods damn me for saying this, but I believe we should work together. I’m vulnerable right now, Azura knows why, and neither of us is an expert on killing Dragons. So, and I will only say this once, you bloody oaf: you’re right.”

Alfred grinned. “That’s awesome! We’re gonna kick every Dragon’s ass so hard they’ll feel our feet in their throats!”

Unbelievable. Arthur shook his head, unable to comprehend why he’d agreed to travel with this—this _child_. And yet it was his best option.

“So it’s agreed, then; we look out for each other, watch each other’s backs.” Arthur extended his hand. “But, Alfred, you must swear never to betray me, and I’ll swear the same.”

Alfred grabbed his forearm, squeezing gently and completing the handshake. “Deal. I protect you, you protect me.” He winked at Arthur, hand resting on his slim hips. “For better or for worse. In sickness and in health—“

Flushed, Arthur spat indignantly, “do _not_ recite marriage vows at me!”

How in the Void was this going to work.


	3. Chapter 3

“C’mon, Arthur,” Alfred called, looking over his shoulder to see the man rubbing his slim neck as he marched to catch up. Smiling, Alfred turned back to Liberty, rubbing a hand over her flank.

Liberty was pretty rare, as horses went. Her hair was like pure gold, and a lot sleeker than the usual coarse-haired horses found in Skyrim. Alfred loved her. He’d had her since he was fifteen, when he and his brother had both been sent out to follow their own paths or whatever spiritual bullshit their father had come up with.

“This is your horse?” Arthur asked, something like disbelief in his voice. Alfred turned to see his feline-esque green eyes looking Liberty up and down.

Alfred laughed again. “Yup! I’ve had her for four years now!” He ran a hand over her mane, grinning at her. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” Without preamble he pulled himself up onto her back. It was such a practiced motion at this point that he barely felt the effort it took. When he was seated he glanced down at Arthur—who was staring at him with an eyebrow raised. Talos, he always looked so condescending. “Well? You comin’ or not?”

Now _both_ of Arthur’s eyebrows were raised. “What, am I to ride with _you_?”

Shrugging, Alfred glanced around at the ramshackle stables. There were a couple of other horses in their stalls, feasting on hay or watching Alfred and Arthur with curious eyes. Arthur wouldn’t mind stealing one, right? Of course not, he’d definitely had no issue taking that woman’s money even after she healed him.

“Hey, there’s plenty of horses, take your pick.”

Liberty was getting fidgety. Alfred patted her side, watching as Arthur looked around the stables. Apparently he made a decision; he approached a large, coal-black horse, slim hands outstretched. She nickered nervously until Arthur got his hands on her nose. Then she calmed, nuzzling into his hand, and Arthur’s pale, angular face stretched into a happy little grin.

Arthur didn’t smile much, did he. It toned down the harshness in his eyes.

Once Arthur was mounted Alfred clucked his tongue, using his knees to steer Liberty out of the stables and towards the road. “So, where to?” he called behind him.

Arthur matched his pace, coming up beside him on the big black mare. She still wasn’t as tall as Liberty. “I don’t know,” he said, and tugged up the rich green hood of his cloak so it covered his face in shadow. “But we’d best go there fast, because it won’t take long for that stable owner to realize we’ve stolen one of his horses.”

Shit, yeah. Alfred dug his heels into Liberty’s sides, urging her from a brisk trot into a run. “Dude, you’re the one who stole her.”

Arthur didn’t answer. When Alfred glanced over, the Bosmer was glaring daggers at him. Oops. Snickering, Alfred urged on. Once they got out of the village they’d probably be fine. Maybe they could head to Whiterun; it was the closest hold, after all. It would take them maybe two days of ten-hour travel to reach it—especially after Alfred had run Liberty for fifteen straight hours with Arthur’s extra weight—but Jorrvaskr would be a welcome sight after so long away.

“How do you feel about Whiterun?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard above the clopping of horseshoes. They were crossing the bridge out of Riverwood now.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “It’ll do,” he said, and that was that. Welp, it was a yes, so Alfred wasn’t concerned. He needed to sharpen _Boneslice_ anyway. Skyforge was calling his name.

So they travelled. Mostly in silence, because Alfred hated the breathless feeling that came from starting a conversation while on horseback. It was kinda nice. He hadn’t actually _worked_ with anyone for a long time.

Alfred was determined to get ten hours of travel in, so they rode well into the night. The air turned cool and crisp, the light of both moons guiding their way.

When Liberty’s movements became sluggish, Alfred slowed her to a stop. “We should camp here for tonight,” he said, climbing down from Liberty’s back and surveying the little place he’d found. There wasn’t much forest between Riverwood and Whiterun, so they’d been travelling along a mountain path for the entire day.

There was a hollow in the side of the mountain. Nothing big enough to constitute a cave, but big enough that it would conceal both of them and their horses from the path.

Patting Liberty’s neck, he led her into the hollow. “C’mon, girl, time to sleep.”

Once he was sure Liberty would be safe, he turned back to see Arthur smoothing a hand down the flank of his sleeping mare. The Bosmer smiled slightly. Then his face tightened, lips pressing together in a thin line. His green eyes, glowing slightly in the shadow of the hollow, caught Alfred’s.

“Should one of us take watch?” His slim fingers hovered over the hilt of his Dragonbone dagger. Oh, yeah, Alfred would have to ask him where he got that someday. Nobody had even _seen_ Dragons for ages.

Stretching, Alfred yawned. “Nah, probably not. Not much danger here.” He’d hear or smell anything before it could cause a problem for them.

Arthur nodded. “It’s a good spot.” Preening, Alfred puffed up his chest. Fuck yeah it was. Apparently Arthur noticed, because he scowled. “Don’t let that go to your head. Let’s sleep.”

Alfred laughed. “I’ll take this spot,” he said, crouching and patting a spot of earth. It was fairly close to the road, although still hidden from anyone passing by. It would let him defend easily if he needed to. “G’night, Arthur.” With a luxurious stretch he collapsed.

After a few moments of twisting and rolling, Arthur growled out, “would it kill you to stop moving?”

“ _You_ try sleeping in full armour, dude, it ain’t fun.”

Finally Alfred found a comfortable position on his side. He could still hear Arthur’s slightly-too-quick breathing; the man was still awake, probably waiting until Alfred fell asleep before he let himself nod off. Hey, Alfred was smart, he knew Arthur’s type. But he was also a competitive ass—and no _way_ was he going to pass out before Arthur.

So he lay there, listening to Arthur’s breathing. It was actually kind of relaxing; honestly, the last person Alfred had slept in close vicinity to was his brother, and that was ten years ago when they still shared a room.

Arthur smelled nice, too. Mages always had a particular scent; something powerful, kinda like pent-up energy. And Arthur smelled like outside, and the sharp tang of blood. There was something else there too, something impossible to describe but impossible to miss. Power, Roderich would say, because he always came up with poetic shit like that when describing smells.

He wondered if Arthur knew what game he was playing. Probably not. If he did, he’d probably freak the fuck out and get pissed. Which would be funny, but the guy needed sleep after getting poisoned. Not to mention whatever weird thing was going on with him. Alfred knew how soldiers worked, and he knew that a trained mind would put off any fear if it wouldn’t help with the situation. And somebody who ‘was’ in the Dark Brotherhood wouldn’t _not_ have a well-trained mind.

Well, that was as good a topic as any to keep him up. Alfred let his mind run with the idea, thinking of half-baked scenarios and weird, magic-related mishaps that were extremely unlikely to have led to Arthur’s reaction. Still, it was fun, and it kept him up.

He was just drifting out of an idea involving the Jarl of Markarth when his ears detected the change. Arthur was breathing deeper and more evenly. His heartbeat had slowed considerably. Sure enough, when Alfred glanced over his shoulder, Arthur was curled up against the back of the hollow, eyes closed and face relaxed.

Alfred allowed himself a second to fist pump before he let sleep take him.

♠       ♠       ♠         

He woke with the sun the next morning. Blinking the light out of his eyes, Alfred sat up abruptly and glanced around. Two horses, check. A still-sleeping Bosmer, check. He glanced down; all his own shit, check.

Another glance at Arthur showed him that the deepset bags under the man’s eyes—which wasn’t something he’d ever seen on any Mer, with their perfect skin—were starting to fade. Alfred stood, checking the horses and glancing out of their little hollow. It was a warm day, a bit windy, but they’d be fine. The ride would be a little harder today; they needed to make it down the mountain into the plains that covered most of the North-East part of Whiterun Hold, but then there’d be nothing but grasslands and small hills.

He checked the path, too. There were no signs of anyone coming through, only the deer tracks that were a couple days old.

Satisfied, Alfred re-entered the hollow. He made his way over to Arthur and gently nudged the man with his boot, careful not to kick him in any important bones. “Get up, lazy,” he said with a laugh.

While Arthur grumbled and pulled himself from sleep, Alfred checked their little makeshift camp again. He leaned against a rock outside, watching as the sun rose above low clouds.

“It’s a beautiful day,” Arthur said, voice thick with sleep as he sidled up to Alfred’s side. They stood there in silence for a bit. They probably made a pretty funny image; Arthur, so tiny and lithe, standing next to Alfred’s broadness. Alfred was smiling at the image himself when Arthur nudged him in the side. “Come then, time to get going.”

They clambered up onto their horses together. Arthur set a brisk trot, the hooves of his horse clopping against the dirt and cobblestone ground.

Two hours into their day, they came to a switchback heading up. Alfred veered Liberty off course, taking her through underbrush and over small stones until they came to the downward slope of the mountain. “Lead your horse after me,” he called back, digging his heels into Liberty’s sides to press her forward. Liberty was a smart horse, well-trained in mountains. She’d never had any trouble going down a slope.

Picking their way down the slope was slow, precise work. Each step Liberty took had to be evaluated; one wrong move could mean death. Occasionally Alfred had to steer her to a safer path.

The sun was beating down on them as they went. Alfred felt sweat soaking into his thick, long-sleeved tunic. It usually whisked his sweat away and kept him cool, but today was fucking ridiculously hot.

Noon came and went, and they both decided to wait until they were on flat ground before trying to find something to eat. Alfred cursed himself for not buying some salted beef—or, hell, even just a wheel of cheese and some bread. But they were almost on the plains, now. The ground was practically flat, it was just covered with stones and rocks of all shapes and sizes.

Finally the rocks thinned out and they were riding on grass again. Alfred led them over to a small forest that curved and twined halfway up the mountain.

Alfred slid off of Liberty, cracking his neck and stretching his arms and legs. “Haven’t travelled like that in ages,” he said, chuckling, taking refuge in a patch of shade. He glanced up to see Arthur walking around, cloak swirling around his ankles and dragging along the ground. “Hey, you any good with that bow?”

Arthur shot him a withering glare. “Of course I’m bloody good with my bow!”

“Well, d’you mind hunting for something then? I’m starving, and you look like you could stand to gain a few pounds.” Arthur glared at him. Well, it was _true_. With that corded leather belt tied around his waist, Alfred could see exactly how thin the guy was.

After a moment of glaring Arthur nodded. “I’ll be back,” he said, before disappearing into the trees.

“I’ll collect berries and shit,” Alfred hollered after him. He grabbed their waterskins and headed out into the plains. There were usually plenty of cold springs in Whiterun Hold, and if he was lucky there’d be some Tundra Cotton growing nearby. And, hopefully, some blackberries.

He came across a cold spring sooner than expected. Excited, Alfred knelt down, tugging off his gauntlets and plunging his hands into the cold water. He scrubbed the sweat from his hands and filled each waterskin until it was overflowing. Then he leaned forward, splashing water into his face and hair. Talos, that felt good.

There was some Tundra Cotton, so he picked that too. He ignored the Lavender (he knew what it did to magic-users, and Arthur didn’t seem to like being without his magic) but found three full bushes of big, ripe blackberries and picked them. There were too many to carry in his hands so he wrapped them up in a big leaf from one of the nearby plants.

When he returned to the horses Arthur was just coming back, a fox slung over his thin shoulders. “Shall I start a fire?” he asked, dumping the fox unceremoniously on the ground.

“Sounds good,” Alfred said. He laid out his bundle of berries, tugging the Cotton Tundra from the pouch at his waist and laying it across the berries. “Hey, Arthur.” When Arthur turned, Alfred tossed him his waterskin. “Found a cold spring.”

“Oh.” Obviously Arthur wasn’t really used to people doing nice things for him. “Thank you.” He took a swig, pale throat bobbing as he swallowed, and set the closed waterskin on the ground. “I’ll return shortly with some firewood.” Alfred nodded, watching him go. He was still wearing the cloak. How the fuck could he possibly be cold? Ah well, Mer were weird, and Arthur seemed to be the weirdest of them all.

While Arthur collected firewood Alfred removed his gauntlets and gloves and set to skinning the fox, pulling his dagger from its sheath on his thigh. It was a beautiful dagger, one he’d crafted himself during the few months he’d spent mining in Markarth, made of the Dwarven metal the Dwemer had been so fond of. He kinda hated using it for anything other than fighting, but he was fucking hungry. Tearing into the fox with his fangs would probably send Arthur packing, so that option was out anyway.

Arthur returned just as Alfred was whittling a nearby stick into a skewer. “’Sup,” he said, waving the pointed stick as a greeting. “Dude, you gonna get that fire on anytime soon? Because I’m practically _dying_ of hunger over here. Haven’t eaten for, like, over a day.”

Huh. It _had_ been over a day since they’d eaten. Shit, Alfred could survive days without food if he used up the food stores in his body, but what about Arthur?

He glanced at the man; Arthur was arranging the firewood into a suitable campfire, cloak still hanging over his shoulders, pooled around him on the ground. He had less fat on him than a Draugr. His cheeks were a little gaunt, and that damn belt around his waist _showed_ Alfred how skinny the guy was.

“Damn, Arthur, you’re skinny,” Alfred said, unable to stop himself.

Arthur bristled. “Well bloody excuse me for not being a _fatass_ like you! I’ll have you know I’m naturally slender, or whatever in the Void you want to call it—“

“Naturally slender is one thing, dude. Being so thin I could count your ribs when you were changing is a whole other thing.”

A red flush bloomed on Arthur’s ridiculously pale face. Eyes wide, he stared at Alfred, before making a frustrated noise and setting the campfire alight with an outstretched hand and a spark of magic. “Cook the damn fox,” he seethed, standing up and marching a good distance away to lean against a tree.

Alfred shrugged. Arthur was too easy to offend; Alfred wasn’t gonna try and walk on thin ice. He’d march where he pleased, and wouldn’t give a fuck if he made any cracks. Arthur could learn to deal.

So while Arthur sulked or brooded or whatever the fuck he was doing, Alfred skewered the chunks of fox meat and made a makeshift spit over the fire.

The heat of the fire was almost unbearable, with the sun cooking the air even in the shade. Alfred wiped a hand across his brow and it came away slick with sweat. He huffed. Wearing armour really sucked sometimes. He definitely needed to get out of it as soon as they got to Whiterun. There was a great big community bath in the underground rooms of Jorrvaskr where he could totally just sit in cold water to his heart’s content.

“How are you wearing that cloak?” he called to Arthur when the fox was almost cooked. Alfred liked his meat a little rare, but he didn’t want to serve half-raw meat to his Mer companion—they had delicate stomachs as it was. “Aren’t you boiling your nuts off?”

Arthur sneered. “You’re vulgar,” he said, as though he’d never sworn a day in his life. “And _no_ , I am not. I grew up in Cyrodiil, brat. The weather there is far warmer than this.”

Instead of pursuing that further—because Alfred had never been to Cyrodiil, despite all his exploring elsewhere, even to the Summerset Isles—Alfred waved him over. “C’mon, fox's ready. Also got some blackberries, and Tundra Cotton if you want it.” He took the spit from the fire, snapping it in half between the two chunks of fox meat and offering one end to Arthur.

Arthur accepted it—albeit a little reluctantly—and sat cross-legged across from Alfred. Every movement of his was so damn graceful, calculated like there was just-barely-contained power brimming beneath the surface.

“Tundra Cotton, please,” Arthur said, taking a stem when Alfred handed it. He crushed up the flower between slim, pale fingers, sprinkling it over his meat with such focus Alfred would’ve though he was sharpening a sword or fletching an arrow. The sharpness of his green eyes for such a mundane task made Alfred laugh. Arthur glared, but Alfred couldn’t help it; Arthur looked sharp doing everything, tightly-wound and almost buzzing in his intensity. It kinda made Alfred feel bad for the guy. He probably didn’t get much of a break from stress if he was always acting like that.

So they ate in silence, and Alfred tried not to rip his fox apart with his teeth.

“You said something about a cold spring?” Arthur’s tone was forcedly casual. When Alfred glanced up, the Bosmer looked pale, his skin slightly colourless.

Alfred nodded, chewing up the last bite of fox and swallowing down the (too cooked, bleh) meat before answering. “Yeah. How come?” He kinda knew, actually. Alfred made a point to at least _try_ to pay attention to the needs of his companions, and Arthur had been favouring his left leg. Emotional atmosphere might not’ve been Alfred’s forte, but injuries most definitely were part of his expertise.

Of course Arthur didn’t actually answer him. The damn thing never _said_ anything. It was kinda getting on Alfred’s nerves.

He grunted, pushing himself into a standing position. “Get up,” he said to Arthur. “Let’s change the bandages on your leg.”

Arthur gaped at him. “How did you—“

Alfred flashed a grin—more of a smirk, really, and he didn’t usually smirk. Arthur seemed to bring it out in him. “That limp ain’t so little.”

A pretty flush spread across Arthur’s cheeks. “It’s not a limp,” he said as a snarl, somehow managing to sound halfway to menacing even as he blushed fiercely. Alfred wasn’t intimidated so easily, and just snickered into his fist. “Don’t you laugh at me, _child_.”

“I’m nineteen,” Alfred pointed out. “Not a child at all, dude.”

Arthur crossed his arms and stuck up his nose. “Well, you might want to consider acting your age, then. As of right now you _are_ a child.”

It wasn’t the first time someone had called Alfred immature, and it wouldn’t be the last. Still, an insult from Arthur made him want to rise to the bait, meet it with his own until one of them came out on top—and honestly, the game would be so fun Alfred didn’t really care if he won.

But he wasn’t grumpy like Arthur, so he smirked and laughed and started a brutal pace towards the cold spring. “Still bigger than you, old man,” he called over his shoulder.

“Oi!” Alfred could hear Arthur struggling to keep up and laughed, clutching at his stomach. “Tosser!”

A few more feet and Alfred slowed down, letting Arthur’s hobbling pace catch up.

“Are you not going to apologize?”

“For telling the truth?” He pointedly looked down at Arthur, at the delicate bones in his gloveless wrists and the ever-present tightness of the belt. “I’m a lot bigger than you. And you act like some crotchety old grampa!”

“I’m only twenty-three, you twat!”

Shit, he really _was_ young, especially for a Mer. And definitely too grumpy for a man his age. Alfred snickered, shoving his thumbs into his leather belt. “You sure have a stick up your ass, Artie,” he said offhandedly, because riling Arthur up was fun, and it made Alfred’s instincts want to fight back and prove—something. He didn’t always _understand_ the instincts.

“I do _not_! I just don’t bloody gallivant all around the province of Skyrim sticking my head into whatever dangers there may be!”

They bickered all the way to the cold spring—which took longer than expected, because of Arthur’s gimp leg. Alfred hoped the guy was healing alright; the Mage’d said he’d be fine, and the guy had been fine earlier. Maybe sitting on a horse all day yesterday and half of today had made it cramp up.

When they reached the cold spring Arthur’s eyes flickered with relief. “Thank Azura,” he said softly, kneeling down to undo the straps and buckles of his Dark Brotherhood boots.

While Alfred sat there Arthur undressed, removing everything but the top of his armour and the tight black shorts he wore beneath it all. “Lemme see,” Alfred said, making a spiral motion with his finger. Arthur glared, but did as suggested, letting Alfred see the wound.

It was still wrapped up in clean white bandages, which meant it hadn’t started bleeding again. And the skin around the wound looked as pale as the rest—not purple, which happened a lot when Wildling poison was involved.

Arthur sat down on the edge of the cold spring, unravelling the bandage from around his knee. He rolled it up and tossed it next to his boots, and, suddenly, plunged his leg into the water halfway up his thigh.

“Fu—“ he began, biting his lower lip to cut himself off. Alfred watched in amazement. Who in the Void _was_ this guy? Arthur was sensible to a fault, and then he went and dunked his injured leg in freezing cold water instead of doing something smart like healing it or using a cloth to clean it. “Ah,” Arthur said, a little breathlessly, and wow, unfair. Alfred was a young man with a healthy libido and a higher sex drive than most. Making those sorts of noises and that kind of face was almost _obscene_. But Alfred prided himself on having a little better control than that—and anyway, it would go away soon. Alfred had never experience infatuation or whatever the fuck it was called for more than a day.

Still, he couldn’t help but tease a little. “Don’t make faces like that in the Ratway,” he said, smirk playing at his lips.

“Fuck off!” Suddenly Alfred found himself with his back on the ground a few feet away from where he’d been sitting. He laughed, pushing himself up again, rubbing at the back of his neck as Arthur glared at him through a ridiculous blush. “I’m seriously reconsidering this arrangement.”

Alfred shrugged. “Good luck with the Dragons, then. Bring me some bones when you kill them.”

“I hate you,” Arthur spat, and the sound of it sent Alfred into more giggles.

“Don’t hate, old man.”

“ _Twenty-bloody-three_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, yeah, we've got Alfred's POV now!! only for this chapter though. arthur is the main character, so the fic will be primarily in his POV, but i like to dabble in the minds of other characters :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to formally apologize for not, y'know, uploading anything, but i finally got back into this a little bit. university started this month and i've been spending a lot of time with the bff so writing just hasn't been happening. hopefully i can get back on a better schedule!

Arthur had never visited Whiterun. It seemed rather pointless; the only fairly useful thing to be found there was the Skyforge, and Arthur managed well enough with any forge. Whiterun didn’t have the beauty of Solitude, nor the grittiness of Riften. It was a rather boring place, he’d heard from many travellers, and the only worthwhile people who made home there were the Companions.

After having bathed and dressed his wound at the cold spring, he and Alfred had returned to the horses. They didn’t take long getting ready, yet the sun was already sinking rather low in the sky by the time they were back on their horses and riding.

“Why Whiterun?” Arthur was asking, during a brief period where their horses slowed to a walk to rest.

When Alfred opened his mouth the sky screamed.

Arthur immediately brought his hands up to his ears, curling over on his horse, trying to wilt and shrivel out of existence. The sound was cacophonous and it _hurt_ , reverberating in his skull and knocking around between his ears and _burning_ something in his throat. He barely recognized his own screaming, panicked and wild as it was.

He thought that, perhaps, dimly, he heard Alfred calling to him. He tried to reach out for the sound, ground himself in something natural and familiar, but it slipped away and he stumbled.

Then he was on the ground, shoulder jarring as he slammed into the hard earth. A yelp escaped his lips and he clutched at his shoulder, rolling onto his back and staring at the sky-fogged cloud with unfocused eyes.

Something blocked the sky out. Arthur panicked, throwing up a hand on instinct, but then there was a strong grip around his wrist. It pressed his arm against the ground, pinning him, trapping him, keeping him down and grounded and dammit, he wanted to _fly—_

“Arthur!” It sounded more like a snarl than an actual shout. The viciousness in it shocked Arthur out, bringing him back to the moment, to the throbbing pain in his shoulder and the rough, lumpy ground beneath his back. He clutched his fingers in something—the soft fabric of his cloak, he realized. It—it helped. He breathed, eyes focusing on Alfred’s face hovering over his, wire-framed glasses dangling dangerously from his ears, blue eyes—oh, _beautiful_ blue eyes—wide with concern. “Arthur!”

“Oh,” he gasped, feeling as cool, clean air entered his lungs. “Oh, I’m alright, don’t worry, I’m alright.”

Why was he trying to comfort _Alfred_? Arthur furrowed his brow, the contorted and confused thoughts in his head whirring too quickly for him to make any sense of this.

“You just fell off your horse!” Alfred made a face. “What the fuck, dude?”

Oh. “The sky screamed,” Arthur said, because it made perfect sense to him.

“What the frick are you even saying, Arthur? Before you were talking about trying to fly and now you’re talking about the sky yelling or whatever the fuck. Did I pick something other than Tundra Cotton?”

“Shut up, you gi—“ He screamed again, clutching something hard and metal. “Stop it, _stop it!_ I’ll kill you! _Zu'u fen krii hi_!” There was fire, fire everywhere, filling him and licking at the edges of his soul and he was going to die if he couldn’t _fly—_

Something slapped him hard across the cheek. “Arthur!” The sharp tone made his eyes widen, the fire disappearing instantly. Arthur blinked, trying to focus, trying to see again. Alfred was leaning over him, bare hand hovering above his face. “Get a hold of yourself!” Alfred frowned down at him; Arthur could do nothing but stare back blankly, feeling utterly numb. “Dude, you’re freaking out again, what the fuck?”

Suddenly it clicked into place for Arthur. “ _Dovah_ ,” he said, still catching his breath. “ _Til los dovah_.”

Hands engulfed his face. So large and warm and _grounding_. “You aren’t making any sense,” Alfred bit out, head ducked so close to Arthur’s their noses were nearly brushing. “Quit with the gibberish and get your bony ass back on that horse.”

“I’m speaking of Dragons, idiot!” Everything was starting to make sense again. He understood it now; he’d had this feeling before, when the first Dragon had showed up during his execution. “There’s another Dragon!”

“What?” Alfred looked about wildly, sitting back on his haunches. Arthur struggled to lift himself to his elbows. “Where?”

Arthur spotted it and blanched, swallowing down bile. “There,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of the great beast. It was closer to the far-off walls of Whiterun, circling around a lone watchtower. “At the tower. Gods, it’s burning everything.” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Alfred, we must fight it, _mu kent krii nii_.”

“What?”

“We must kill it.”

“Uh, do _you_ know how to kill a Dragon?”

Arthur shook his head. “Just trust me, you git, we need to kill it.” He didn’t know why or how, but something deep within himself was telling him to kill the Dragon. “Help me up you useless sod!”

Alfred did as told, grabbing Arthur’s hand and hauling him easily to his feet. “Are you sure about this? You aren’t looking a hundred percent, Arthur.”

Scowling, Arthur climbed onto his horse. He looked down to glare at Alfred. “Never doubt me again.” And then he was off, riding for the Dragon, the tightness in his chest increasing as he drew nearer.

As he neared he noticed the Whiterun City Guards fighting the beast, firing arrows at it wildly and trying desperately to bring it down. None of the shots hit; they clattered off the Dragon’s thick natural armour, falling uselessly to the ground even as others took their place. None of these idiots knew what the fuck they were doing.

“What’s your plan?” Alfred shouted from behind him.

Arthur fixed his eyes on the Dragon. “Ground him,” he called back, narrowing his green eyes at the Dragon’s wings. “And then I’ll kill him.”

When they were close enough Arthur reared back on his horse, stopping her and climbing off not a moment later. He took out his bow and unleashed three arrows, testing for weak spots, finding none.

“If I bring him down,” he said, feeling strangely calm as Alfred brandished the greatsword beside him, “can you ground him permanently?”

A quick glance at Alfred showed a nod.

Arthur raised his bow, nocking an arrow. The feathered fletching brushed against his cheek as he breathed, eyes locked on the target. Sound dimmed to nothing but the rush of blood in his ears. He took a deep breath, bowstring pulled taut, and then let the arrow fly.

It landed on the mark, right at the fleshy junction between the beast’s wing and his body. The Dragon screamed and it sounded like it was saying “yol”. Arthur lifted a hand to keep the fire at bay as the Dragon’s flight faltered and he drifted to the ground, one wing working double to keep him upright as long as possible.

Alfred saw the opening. Before Arthur could even register it Alfred was meeting the creature at the ground. He swung the greatsword with a great wordless cry and the beast _truly_ screamed, thrashing and writhing as thick black blood spurted from the place its arm had once been. Arthur’s eyes widened; even against Dragonbone, the power in Alfred’s swing was unstoppable.

He pushed the thought back and leapt forward, pulling his Dragonbone dagger from its sheath. He dodged the wild flailing of the Dragon’s head and jumped onto its neck. Legs locked tightly around the scales, Arthur leaned forward, wrapping an arm around the Dragon’s neck.

He stabbed, up between two plates of the Dragon’s natural armour, into the flesh. Then he pulled across the Dragon’s neck.

Its scream was cut off in a gurgle as thick, hot blood drenched his hand. The Dragon thrashed wildly, throwing him off its neck. Arthur landed in a crouch, breathing hard, bloodied hand still clenched tightly around the Dragonbone dagger. As he watched, the Dragon died. It was chaotic and ugly, blood that was nearly black spraying over the grassy plains, the Dragon making pitiful burbling sounds when it tried to scream.

Arthur watched, and felt powerful. He’d taken down a Dragon. Slowly, he stood, all the pain and disorientation from before dissolving from his body.

“What the fuck, Arthur, that was sick rad!” Alfred was at his side, clapping a large hand on his shoulder. Strange. Arthur could barely feel it; he was on a high, his entire body numb and floating. But Alfred’s hand grounded him. The euphoric feeling of floating disappeared, and Arthur was back on the soil. “Dude, we are _definitely_ gonna stay together.”

Feeling smug, Arthur brushed dirt from his cloak. “Naturally,” he said.

The Whiterun Guards began to approach them, weapons still out. “That—that was incredible!” one said, his thick accent marring the words somewhat. “You just killed a Dragon!”

“I helped!” Alfred piped up, settling his heavy arm on Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur shrugged him off. “Oh, bugger off,” he said, although the words lacked the venom he wanted. He turned, stalking off towards the dead Dragon. Dead, it seemed much less terrifying, simply an overgrown reptile with leathery, batlike wings. As it was, the Dragon was in a rather undignified pose; it was on its back, its one remaining wing spread across the blood-stained earth, limbs flopped uselessly around it.

He felt more than heard Alfred come up beside him. The man’s warmth seemed even stronger now—it was as though Arthur could sense his presence. When he glanced over the Nord was staring at the dead Dragon, grinning with eyes as blue as a clear sky.

“Nice job on the wing,” Arthur said, because he was feeling somewhat generous. It truly was like a high, giving him energy, making him feel . . . _different_ , somehow.

The feeling suddenly changed. A crackling washed over him, the sound roaring in his ears. The Dragon began to burn, leathery skin turning to ash as though it were simply paper, muscle and sinew dissolving to leave only bone. And then—and then lights floated up from the still-burning corpse, streams of energy that shot straight for Arthur’s heart. It felt right, finally, after so long feeling as though everything was a touch off. The energy swirled around him, curling and twisting around his bones, a welcome buzzing of warmth. Arthur lifted his hand, watching as the energy flowed and settled deep within him, the glow of it diminishing until it was gone.

When he turned back to Alfred and the Whiterun Guards, their expressions cracked the pure golden light he felt deep within his soul. Especially Alfred, with his big blue eyes, staring at him with an expression of confusion that was nearly horror.

“What you just did,” one of the Guards said, carefully moving his hand to his sword, “that was . . .”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “That was _what_ , exactly?” The Guards all took a step back at his outburst. “Excuse me, I’d rather like to know what’s going on. And you,” he pointed at Alfred, his hands still covered in the Dragon’s blood, “What in the _Void_ is with your bloody expression? I’m no bloody Daedra!”

“How long have you been in Skyrim, dude?”

“How the _fuck_ is that relevant?!”

Alfred just shook his head in disbelief. Then he squared his broad shoulders, facing Arthur directly. “You’re the Dragonborn, dumbass!” He took a few steps forward as he said it, until he was towering over him. “Did you think it wasn’t worth mentioning?

 _What_? Arthur just blinked, standing his ground and staring up into the coldness in Alfred’s eyes. “I’m the _what_?”

Alfred opened his mouth; then, eyebrows furrowing, shut it. He took a step back. “You don’t—“

“Listen well, _boy_ ,” Arthur hissed, feeling the Dragon’s energy— _his_ energy—crackling within him. “I do _not_ know what the hell you just called me, but I damn well don’t appreciate your bloody attitude!”

Then Alfred—Alfred _laughed_ , of all things. “Oh, fuck, you didn’t even know. That is _rich_.” He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, shooting Arthur a grin and a wink. Arthur scowled and ignored the heat in his cheeks. “Sorry ‘bout that, Artie. I’ll tell you more later.” Then he reached forward, as if to ruffle Arthur’s hair—

“Don’t!” one of the Whiterun Guards screamed, rushing forward. She put a hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “He’s dangerous!”

Staring at the woman incredulously, Alfred withdrew his hand. “Well, no shit,” he said, giving her a big grin. “Did you just see what he did? It was fucking incredible!” He shrugged the woman off, going to stand next to Arthur. His expression was jovial, but Arthur caught a glimpse of something hard in those cheery blue eyes. With Alfred standing next to him, arms crossed, all broad shoulders and trim waist, Arthur just felt bloody _confused_. There was a sort of staredown happening between Alfred and the Whiterun Guards—and, for reasons inconceivable, it was over _him_.

“Would anyone care to explain _exactly_ what is going on here?” Arthur asked drily, raising an eyebrow as the Guards all flinched at his voice.

“You’re the Dragonborn,” the female Guard said, still staring at him. Her eyes were watching him intently—waiting for any sign of movement, Arthur knew. “You’re the bloody _Dragonborn_.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, flicking his ears in annoyance. It wasn’t often he emoted with his ears—his father’s wife had always hated it, and there was trouble whenever she got angry with him—but he just couldn’t _help_ it sometimes. “Yes, thank you, I gathered that,” he said, crossing his arms at the woman. “I’d like an explanation on what that _is_.”

A hand closed around the back of his neck and Arthur nearly flinched. Instead he glared up at Alfred, although the boy just stared back. His eyes flicked briefly to the Whiterun Guard. “It means you have the blood and soul of a Dragon,” Alfred said, his grip on Arthur tightening. “Don’t know much more about it, but I’m pretty sure it also means you’re the only person who can kill Dragons permanently.”

Suddenly Arthur was grateful for Alfred’s hold on him. Otherwise he might have collapsed. His legs felt shaky, his hands trembling despite being curled into fists at his side. Again he felt a sensation of flying, but Alfred’s fingers against his pulse were warm.

“Ah.” There wasn’t much more he could say. His armour felt too tight. No, it was _his_ skin that was tearing at the seams, barely holding together, containing him.

The Whiterun Guards stepped closer. “We don’t trust the Dragonborn around here,” one said. “You’re permitted in the city, but we’ll be keeping our eyes on you. A monster with the soul of a Dragon cannot be trusted.”

As though _that_ were the reason Arthur couldn’t be trusted. He would have said it, had his throat not been sewn shut.

The Guards, true to their word, kept their eyes on him, as he stood there with a Nord’s hand around the back of his neck keeping him from falling apart. Even as they were climbing onto their horses. Their distrustful gazes stayed on him until they were riding away, back to the distant walls of Whiterun.

When Alfred deemed them far enough, he withdrew his hand from Arthur’s neck. Arthur felt numb, his legs shaking, his lips parted on an exhale of breath.

He couldn’t bother to care as his legs gave out. His tailbone slammed into hard earth and he barely winced, still just staring at the horizon. Dragonborn. How . . . how could it be possible? It didn’t make _sense_. Arthur took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to fill his lungs. The euphoric feeling of the Dragon’s energy was gone, replaced by cold numbness and a heaviness in his limbs.

“Woah, Arthur!” Alfred was speaking, his voice muffled as though through thick walls. “Arthur, hey, listen to me!”

“I’m . . .” He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.

“Arthur!” There were bare hands on either side of his face and a nose pressed nearly up against his. “Hey! Get your head out of the clouds and pay attention, alright?”

“What?” The haze cleared abruptly—and Arthur realized that he was half in Alfred’s lap and his face was being held gently between the Nord’s hands. Eyes widening, he shoved out of Alfred’s grip, scrambling to his feet a good metre away. He ignored his flush, panting hard. “What the fuck do you think you’re—oh, Azura, my _head_.” He stumbled, bringing a hand up to his forehead.

“You should sit down,” Alfred said, his hand already closing around Arthur’s shoulder.

Sitting sounded _wonderful_ , to be perfectly honest. Arthur lowered himself to a kneel, mindful of the wicked pounding in his head. The ground was stable beneath him, warmed by the sun.

Alfred sat facing him, legs crossed, hands resting in his lap. There was a long silence between them. As they sat the pain in Arthur’s head lessened, the energy he’d taken from the Dragon coursing through him once more.

“So,” he began, testing his voice. “Dragonborn.”

With a smirk, Alfred nodded. “Yep, that’d be you.”

“Hm.” Arthur sat in silence, simply thinking. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders; the air wasn’t particularly cold, but the cloak provided him some comfort. “Why me, exactly? I’m not _from_ Skyrim.”

Alfred shrugged. “You tell me, dude. I’m as shocked as you are.”

“So you say . . . you say I have the blood and soul of a Dragon?” Curious, Arthur brought his hand before his face. It was the same hand he’d only just seen absorb the bizarre energy from the Dragon. “How can that be possible? A person surely cannot simply be _born_ with the soul of a Dragon rather than that of a man.” His voice sounded calm even to his own keen ears, but beneath the composed exterior he felt _wild_. Fire raced through his veins, skin sizzling, tremors running through him that he barely managed to keep contained. “What exactly is the criteria for being Dragonborn?”

Unfortunately, the only response Alfred had was a shrug. “Honestly I’ve got no idea. Nobody seems to have any records of earlier Dragonborns. I’m pretty interested in history and shit, so I went looking, but everyone said they’ve either got nothing or it was destroyed pretty soon after Braginski started the rebellion.”

Well, that was useless.

“But the Greybeards might know something.” Alfred flashed him a cheeky grin. “They live up on the Throat of the World.” That cleared up nothing. Arthur raised an eyebrow and Alfred laughed. “They’re a bunch of cool old guys with super badass beards that can Shout. I’ve heard they got records on pretty much _everything_.”

Arthur nodded. This was . . . Sithis, it was _so much_ to take in. He knew he appeared calm, but on the inside a storm was tearing through him, leaving a mess of everything.

“What is the exact purpose of the Dragonborn?”

Another shrug. Bloody brilliant. “Dude I dunno, to do cool Dragon shit?” He smiled, big and bright.

Arthur glanced around them. Bloody hell, the two of them were still just sitting near the Dragon’s skeleton. And the sun was beginning to set. Nothing drastic yet, but it was certainly sinking in the sky, and if they didn’t start riding soon they’d be riding in the dark. Which—although they were within seeing distance of Whiterun—was never a very sensible idea.

“We should go,” Arthur said, taking a deep breath before smoothly rising to his feet. Alfred’s beautiful golden mare, Liberty, was kicking at the dirt and huffing slightly, but she was still waiting patiently. Arthur’s horse was, of course, nowhere to be seen. Poor girl had probably been frightened by the Dragon. Arthur felt a pang in his heart for the mare; in the wilds, she had as much chance finding a herd of wild horses as she did being eaten by a bear.

So, he’d be forced to ride with Alfred. Oh joy.

But first, if they were to be travelling to Whiterun, Arthur would have access to a forge. And there was no possibility of him leaving the bones of that Dragon to crumble to dust.

“Do you have room in your saddlebags?” Arthur asked, marching definitively towards the Dragon.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because I refuse to let this material go to waste.”

♠       ♠       ♠         

By the time Arthur had collected all the Dragonbone possible, Alfred’s saddlebags were positively _bulging_. Unfortunately it would put a strain on the poor mare, but the ride to Whiterun from here was a short one. Two hours, likely.

“Sorry, old girl,” Arthur said to the mare, rubbing her nose and smiling softly at her. As always around animals, he felt the Bosmer side of him responding vigorously, his natural gift with animals amplified. “You must feel awful, having to drag that overweight half-wit around constantly. I hate to be adding to your burden.”

“I can _hear_ that, y’know,” Alfred called from several metres away. Scowling, Arthur glanced over his shoulder to see Alfred giving the Dragon skeleton one last look-over. _How_ had he possibly heard Arthur’s murmuring? “And I’m not fat! Don’t say that, dude. At least I’m actually a healthy weight and not a literal twig!”

“Stuff it!”

Alfred marched over, sticking his tongue out at Arthur as he passed by. What a pointless, childish gesture. Arthur responded by kicking Alfred in the ass.

“Literally what the fuck,” Alfred said, turning around and narrowing his eyes.

Arthur just pursed his lips. “Get on the damn horse. Night is falling and I’d rather not be attacked by bandits.”

The absurd look continued for a few more seconds before Alfred just shook his head and patted Liberty’s flank. “Whatever, old man. Let’s get going, then.” He gave the horse one more stroke, smiling softly at her, before climbing up onto her back in a practiced motion. He took a moment to settle, then glanced down at Arthur. “D’you need help up or something?”

“Of course not.” Arthur scoffed. “Be useful and hold out your arm, would you?” Alfred did as told, holding out his armoured forearm. Grasping him near the elbow, Arthur backed up slightly; then he took a running step and pulled himself up, using the momentum to swing up onto Liberty’s back. “There we go. Honestly, this would have been much easier if you rode with a saddle.” He glanced behind him, at the strap of the saddlebags.

“Liberty doesn’t like saddles,” Alfred said. “Now hold on.”

Within moments they were off, Liberty galloping across the darkening countryside. Arthur immediately grabbed Alfred’s ribcage. It was bizarre, riding behind someone; the horse felt strange between his legs, her shape different this far back.

Unfortunately, with Alfred wearing such hard armour, there was nothing Arthur could lean against. He had his pride, but that was currently fighting a losing battle against his exhaustion and confusion. Leaning forward, Arthur rested his forehead against Alfred’s broad back, trying to keep his eyes open so he wouldn’t tumble off the bloody horse. Azura, he was so _tired_. So much had happened in such a short span of time.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Alfred said, sounding breathless. “Seriously, who falls asleep on the back of a galloping horse?”

Arthur scowled against his back. “I’m just tired, alright? It has been a trying few days.” Still resting his head against the cool metal of Alfred’s armour, Arthur closed his eyes. “I won’t fall asleep . . .”

Before Arthur knew it they were slowing to a trot, then a walk, and then Alfred had stopped the horse altogether. Blinking, Arthur sat up again, only to see Alfred half-turned and looking at him. “Seriously, dude, you are literally falling asleep right now. You’re riding in the front.” And then Alfred was dismounting with ease.

“I’m perfectly fine—oomph!” Suddenly Alfred’s hands were beneath his shoulders and he was being lifted off the horse. “What in the Void do you think you’re bloody doing?”

The moment his feet were planted on the stable ground Arthur wrenched away, glaring at Alfred as he smoothed out the folds in his cloak. Bugger, he’d have to clean the blood out of it.

Instead of responding with words, Alfred raised his eyebrows, brilliant blue eyes staring half-lidded at Arthur. With the sun setting, Alfred’s eyes reflected the light enough that they appeared nearly violet. Then the Nord blinked, and the entrancing effects of the beauty disappeared.

Again, Alfred swung up onto Liberty’s back. When he was seated properly he scooted back, then patted the space in front of him with a pointed look at Arthur.

Shaking his head, Arthur approached, hands on his hips as he walked. “I don’t know _why—_ “

And then Alfred reached down, grabbed him under the shoulders, and lifted him up into the space in front of him with barely more than a grunt. For a moment Arthur was simply frozen—because a feat like that didn’t seem _possible_. But then he shook his head sharply and looked over one shoulder to glare at Alfred.

“A _warning_ would be nice next time!”

Alfred snorted, rolling his eyes. “If I warned you you’d refuse, old man.” He reached up to ruffle Arthur’s hair.

“Enough!”

Alfred’s laughter echoed out over the plains. “Dude, don’t be such a tightass!”

“ _Excuse me—_ “

Before Arthur could ever respond Liberty started into a sprint, knocking him briefly back into Alfred’s chest before he braced his body and sat up again. That was foul play. Arthur told Alfred as much, but the incessant laughter just repeated.

“You’d better pray your Gods are looking out for you, _boy_.”

A snicker bubbled up behind him. “Yeah, yeah. Go to sleep, Artie.”

Arthur nearly blasted Alfred off the damn horse for that. Instead, he took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. He would not _sleep_. No way in the Void did he trust Alfred enough to fall asleep on a bloody horse. No, he’d simply rest his eyes for a moment, until they reached Whiterun. That was all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have forgotten some of my plotting for this that never made it into written word, so, uh, wish me luck in trying to remember things.


	5. Chapter 5

“Gil, leave the poor man alone. He looks exhausted.”

“I’m not _doing_ anything, princess!”

“Well, when he wakes up I’m sure your horrid face is the last thing he’ll want to see!”

“What, you think he wants to see _you_?”

“Hmph! Well at least I don’t look like a Vampire!”

“Please, you couldn’t look as good as me on your _best_ day!”

At the shout Arthur woke, eyes flying open as he sat up. Furs pooled at his waist and he blinked once, twice, before taking in the room he was in. It was rather large, lit by only candles and a flickering chandelier that cast strange shadows on the dark stone walls. He was in a bed. There were three others identical to the one he was in, all covered in various furs and skins.

“Hey, he’s awake!” Arthur’s eyes flickered to the side to see two other people in the room. One, a young woman with long brown hair tumbling down her back and over her shoulders, was leaning up against the closed door with her bare arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. And the other—the other had skin and hair as pure white as snow, eyes glinting like spilled wine. “Welcome back to the world of the living!”

He began to stand from the wooden chair he was seated in and Arthur reacted instinctively, flicking his wrist, sending a bolt of ice to freeze the man’s foot to the floor.

Eyes the colour of blood glared at him, pale eyebrows furrowing. “Woah, the fuck is this?”

The girl at the door snorted. As she stepped forward Arthur raised his hands again, curling his fingers around crackling lightning. She stopped moving. “Honestly, Gil, I _told_ you he’d react poorly! But you’re so stubborn that you always have to have your way!”

Frowning, the pale man (Gil?) wiggled his trapped leg. “I just wanted to welcome him!”

Alright, that was enough. “Stop referring to me as though I’m not in the room!” Arthur shouted, startling them both into looking at him. “Who the hell are you?”

The girl’s shocked face melted into a kind smile, green eyes warm. “I’m Elizaveta,” she said, putting a hand on her chest. Arthur narrowed his eyes at her. She was a rather small girl, probably only slightly shorter than him, and the hair cascading down her back dwarfed her. Still, despite her small size, the sleeveless tunic she wore showed that her arms were finely muscled. “The rude, big-mouthed—“

“I’m the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt,” the man chimed in, hands on his hips, chest puffed up—although with his foot frozen to the floor it looked rather comical. Gilbert was decidedly larger than Elizaveta, although not nearly as well-built as Alfred. “Son of the Harbinger of the Companions!”

Well, that answered the question of where he _was_ , at least. But it didn’t answer the question of where his armour was. Arthur glanced down—he was wearing a plain green tunic, so similar to the one Elizaveta wore that he had no doubt it was hers. It was frustrating to note that the tunic was too broad for his thin frame. Perhaps Alfred was right—no, he could never even _consider_ that.

“And my armour? Where is that? My weapons as well, and my—“ his words cut short, throat closing up. His broach. It was no longer a comfortable weight at his throat; nor could he see it anywhere in the room. Before he could stop himself he was up and out of the bad—and he noted gratefully that someone had dressed him in loose pants—and had both hands clenched in the collar of Gilbert’s collar. “Where are they!” He could feel energy crackling within himself, unlike anything he’d ever felt. No. He _had_ felt this energy, when he’d absorbed the Dragon’s power. It gave him strength.

“What the fuck?” Gilbert tried to take a step back—then stumbled when his still frozen foot remained. His daedra-esque eyes went wide as he fell back. “Shit!”

Arthur didn’t let him fall. “My personal belongings; where are they? If you’ve misplaced a single thing—“

“Arthur!” He hadn’t even heard the door open. Glancing up, Arthur saw Alfred standing in the doorway, eyes comically wide, wire-framed glasses hanging from the collar of his loose tunic. For a solid three seconds they stood staring at one another. Then Alfred furrowed his brow. “What are you _doing_?”

Arthur blinked. In an instant he regained his senses, pulling Gilbert back up so they were both standing straight. Azura, he’d gotten so worked up over something so small . . .

With a flick of Arthur’s wrist the ice around Gilbert’s foot disappeared. “I’m sorry,” he said, dipping his head at the ghost-like man. “I’m tired. Not to mention _somebody_ ,” he glared at Alfred, “dumped me somewhere without even thinking I might like to be woken up and told where I am!”

Alfred pouted. “What is this?! Damn, dude, I’m just trying to help! I was being all heroic and shit. D’you know how hard it is to ride with someone who’s asleep? And you looked like shit so I figured you deserved some shut-eye!” He crossed his arms, muscles bulging. “Don’t be an ass, Artie, I’m literally doing nothing but trying to help here.”

“Then where _were_ you?”

“Sleeping!”

Arthur snapped his mouth shut. Oh. For some reason he’d forgotten that Alfred _also_ needed to sleep, like any other person. And he hadn’t even had the chance to rest on the ride into Whiterun.

There was a moment of silence, then Gilbert drawled, “so, are you guys done _flirting_ now?”

 _Oh bloody—_ Arthur whirled on him with fire cracking and popping in his curled fists. “Say that again and I’ll take your damn head off, you bloody Vampire!”

“Oh, for the love of Dibella—“ Elizaveta took that moment to step between a blisteringly furious Arthur and a challenging Gilbert. “You’re both being children! Everybody should sit down and talk!” Eyes the colour of moss landed on Arthur. “We still don’t even know who you are!”

“Liz—“

“Shut up!” In a blur of movement Elizaveta punched Gilbert in the jaw, sending him reeling backwards. “I don’t want to hear another word from you!”

“Nice one, Liz!” Alfred marched further into the room, somehow taking up more space than Arthur, Gilbert and Elizaveta combined. The Nord truly was larger than life in the most annoying way. “Arthur, sit down, dude!” Shouldering past him, Alfred collapsed onto the bed, wooden frame creaking under his weight. And then there was a warm hand wrapped tight around Arthur’s elbow and he found himself being dragged down to join Alfred. “You still look like complete, shit, y’know.”

“Oi!” Arthur elbowed Alfred in the ribs, standing briefly so he could sit down gingerly a good distance away from the man on the bed. “Don’t just grab a person and pull them down!”

Alfred’s eyes, bright blue and warm in the candlelight, just sparkled. “Whatever, man.”

“Not _whatever_! You’re being a brat and an arse. Sithis, you’re so bloody annoying, you never bother to care what anyone else might be feeling!”

“A- _hem_!” Arthur’s glare snapped away from Alfred’s face to see that Elizaveta was frowning at both of them. She was still standing, arms crossed tight over her chest. “What did I just say? Now, we should all have a conversation! Not everything can be solved with violence, you know.” She rolled her eyes. “ _Boys_.”

Gilbert, who had taken a seat on the opposite bed, made a face. “You’ve been spending too much time with Edelstein.” He rubbed his jaw. “Also, hypocrite much? You had no problem punching _me_!”

“Some situations deserve violence.”

“Your _face_ deserves violence you bitch!”

Well, this was certainly interesting. Arthur watched the two of them bicker, glaring at one another with increasingly red faces. They both had rather interesting accents.

“Dudes, weren’t we gonna talk?”

The bickering stopped abruptly. “Oh, yes,” Elizaveta said, flushing prettily. “I apologize for Gil’s idiocy.”

“You—“

“Shut it!” Taking a deep breath, Elizaveta took a seat on the bed next to Gilbert, the sun-kissed tan of her skin contrasting with Gilbert’s paleness. Then she fixed her eyes on Arthur, giving him a smile. “So, who are you? Alfred didn’t say anything to us before he went to his room.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes at Alfred. So he hadn’t even bothered _telling_ anyone who Arthur was or even why they were travelling together? Then he turned back to Elizaveta and smirked. “Well, my name is Arthur Kirkland.”

“And he’s totally the Dragonborn.”

 _What_?! Arthur turned on Alfred; the boy was just sitting there with a shit-eating grin on his face. “You bloody idiot, don’t just say that like it’s nothing! You said yourself that nobody trusts the Dragonborn! And considering it is _I_ that has the bloody soul of a Dragon, I’d think it would be up to me to tell people, and it is certainly not something a man I’ve only just met blurts out to people I’ve never seen before! Are you _completely brainless_?”

Alfred’s grin widened, blue eyes shining; he was enjoying this, the bastard. “Oh, suck it up, they’d have to know eventually.”

“ _Why_?”

At that Alfred shrugged. “Because I tell them, like, everything!”

“So you’re incapable of keeping a secret, then?”

“Alright!” Both of them started at that, turning their heads to see Elizaveta scowling at both of them, hair swirling around her like it was alive. Green eyes blazing, she stood there, hands resting on the curves of her hips. “No more arguing! We are going to have a civil conversation, dammit!” She narrowed her pretty eyes and pressed her lips together in a thin line. “Now, both of you, no more yelling. Alfred, obviously you’ve forgotten, but there are other people trying to sleep down here!”

“Totally forgot about that, bro.” Arthur glanced over to see Alfred grinning insufferably. What a prat.

A few more moments passed, and Elizaveta sat down daintily. “Alright. Please, let us start over.” Her gaze met Arthur’s, a warm smile on her face. “You say your name is Arthur Kirkland?”

Arthur nodded. Well, it was close enough to the truth. Kirkland was his father’s family name, and it didn’t hurt anybody to adopt it. “Yes.”

This time it was Gilbert who spoke. “And you’re the Dragonborn?”

Arthur sighed. “Yes.”

Surprisingly, Gilbert just laughed, clapping a hand to his stomach. “Oh man, Glasses is gonna _hate_ this! Good job, Jones, Edelstein is gonna shit himself when he realizes you’ve brought the fucking Dragonborn into Jorrvaskr.” Gilbert’s pale lips twisted up into a toothy grin and Arthur was half-surprised when he couldn’t see long, pointed, vampire canines.

Elizaveta smacked him in the arm. “Don’t tease Roderich!” Then she turned to Arthur—and though her hands were curled into nervous fists in her lap, she was smiling at him. “You may be the Dragonborn, but if Alfred trusts you, then I do as well.”

Well, that was certainly somewhat unexpected. The way Alfred had explained it—and the way the Whiterun Guards had reacted—Arthur certainly expected much more hatred. Perhaps the Companions were more accepting than the common Nord.

“Speaking of you and Al,” Gilbert said, pursing his lips and glancing between them, “how’d you two end up together? Hope this guy isn’t another brothel find, you know how many diseases they have—“

Arthur was up and off the bed before Gilbert could utter the next word, towering over the still-sitting Gilbert with flames crackling in his curled hands. “ _Excuse me?! What the bloody fuck did you just insinuate about me you rotten—_ “

“Arthur, dude.”

Arthur whirled on Alfred. “ _What_.”

“Calm the fuck down.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Well, excuse me for wanting to defend my honour against some childish arsehole!”

Still grinning, Alfred shrugged. “Well, for all we know, you _are_ from a brothel—“

Arthur didn’t waste a moment before he kicked Alfred in the chest. When the young man coughed, Arthur preened, taking his seat again and dispelling the magic curled around his hands.

“Dick move, dude . . .”

“Well, perhaps you shouldn’t be a prick.”

“Dibella help me—“ Elizaveta sighed, bringing the attention to her. She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. “Boys, honestly. You’re all nothing but a bunch of rowdy _animals_.”

Crossing his arms and leaning back, Gilbert grinned at her. “No way! I’m awesome, you’re just used to prissy wimps with sticks up their asses.” He winked at her. “You know, the poor excuse for a Companion you call your beau?”

“Don’t even start with me! You’re just jealous because Roderich is smarter than you!”

“With the life we live, I’d rather be strong and capable than smart any day!”

As the bickering continued, Arthur leaned over slightly. “Is this a regular occurrence?”

Alfred laughed. “Dude, you have no idea. Gil and Liz grew up together so they’ve totes got that whole sibling rivalry thing going on. You should see them when they’ve got weapons in their hands, it’s friggin’ incredible.”

Arthur shook his head, letting his lips quirk in a smile. “Of course _you’d_ think so.”

There was a thump as Alfred collapsed backwards onto the bed, spreading his arms out wide. Arthur stared at the man over his shoulder. Any assumptions he may have had about the armour making Alfred’s muscle look bigger—well, they were absolutely false. Even without the beautiful armour Alfred looked capable of taking down a man with his bare hands.

Then Arthur realized he was staring at the man’s body and immediately glanced back up at Elizaveta and Gilbert, face flushed. The two were still arguing, about what he couldn’t understand—honestly, he was too lost to bother paying much attention.

“Ahem,” Arthur said, trying to get a word in. Two sets of eyes—still furious—landed on him. Arthur took a moment to roll his eyes before continuing. “I believe you asked how Alfred and I met?”

Elizaveta flushed again. “Oh, yes! Sorry!”

Arthur felt Alfred shift slightly, but he raised his left hand. “You can keep your mouth shut. I believe it’s _my_ turn to speak, thank you.” Alfred just snickered, staying in the same position on the bed. “Now, I’ll begin with saying that we’d both been arrested. I still don’t know why Alfred was arrested—“

“Got hired to explore-slash-loot an abandoned mine that turned out to be not all that abandoned.”

“— _but_ I’d been contracted to kill some Lord that apparently the Empire was fond of.”

“Wait, you were arrested by the _Imperial Legion_?” Gilbert whistled long and low, white eyebrows raised. “Impressive that you got away!” He snickered.

“We were in the same cart together. Of course, I was behaving like a rational person, while Alfred was acting like a child and wanted to know my _name_ , of all things—“

He was cut off by Alfred’s laughter. “Pssh. Rational? Dude, you flipped your shit the second the Dragon showed up!”

“Would you _shut up_!” Arthur glared at the Nord over his shoulder. The only response he got was an infuriating grin. “Well. As I was saying, we were in the same cart together, and then one by one prisoners were called up to the chopping block.”

“It was weird, guys, Ivan Braginski was there! Didn’t get his head chopped off though.” Arthur still couldn’t tell if that was disappointment or not. Not that he cared much; he was more focused on telling the damn story as quickly as possible so he could have access to his gear again.

“ _As I was saying_ , when I was called up to the block, just before I was about to lose my head, a Dragon showed up and attacked me.” Arthur’s fingers twitched. He could recall it clear as day; the panic he’d felt, the blazing heat of the Dragon’s flame, the screaming in his head. It was enough to make his head start to pound even now. Something trickled over his lip. Furrowing his brow, he rubbed his upper lip with the back of his wrist, then glanced at his wrist. Blood. “Fantastic.”

“Here.” Without needing to be asked Elizaveta ripped off a chunk of the pelt she was sitting on—which couldn’t be easy, as the fur looked like it came from a bear – and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” Arthur said, pressing the soft fur to his nose. “These nosebleeds are starting to get inconvenient.” He continued, although his voice sounded strange and thick. “Alfred grabbed the chest with our gear and carried it into one of the towers, and we both changed. Then Alfred convinced me to follow him to find an underground passage that may or may not have existed—thank Azura it did—and all was going well until we ran into Wildlings.” Arthur narrowed his eyes, glancing between Elizaveta and Gilbert. “Tell me, is he always an idiot when it comes to Wildlings?”

“Least I wasn’t the one who alerted them.”

“I still maintain that it was your fault.”

“Nuh-uh!” Alfred made to sit up but Arthur smacked him on the chest.

“I haven’t finished. Honestly, how many times are you going to interrupt me?” He glanced back to see Alfred pouting at him, looking absolutely ridiculous. Arthur just smirked at him and turned back to face Elizaveta and Gilbert. “Well, Alfred wanted to fight them, so we did—until one of them shot me. So I killed most of them using magic and Alfred finished off the rest. And then—well, I don’t remember much after that until I woke again, because I’d been bloody _shot_.”

Before Arthur knew it Alfred was sitting up again, bouncing on the bed like a damn puppy. “Sweet, now I get to tell the story! So, Arthur was totally dying—you guys know what Wildling poison does to people—and we were pretty much fucked. I, being the hero, carried his ass out of there and called for Liberty, and then we rode to Riverwood and he got patched up.” Alfred smirked at him. “And then he stole the healer’s money.”

Arthur shrugged. “I won’t apologize for it.”

“Dude, you were totally Thieves Guild at some point, weren’t you.”

Sighing, Arthur fixed Alfred with a blank stare. “Yes. Now, how is that information at _all_ relevant?” When Alfred didn’t have an answer, Arthur turned back to Gilbert and Elizaveta. “After that we left Riverwood and simply travelled for Whiterun. However, we encountered another Dragon. Alfred helped bring it down and I killed it.” Eyes narrowing, Arthur glanced down at his hand, seeing in his mind the Dragon’s energy as it had swirled around him. “And then I absorbed the Dragon’s energy, somehow.”

“There were Whiterun Guards there and they got mega pissed at him,” Alfred interjected, knocking his shoulder against Arthur’s. “So they might kinda hate us now because we’re ‘harbouring’ him or whatever.”

“Dad’s gonna be pissed at you,” Gilbert said nonchalantly. “Oh well, can’t be that bad. I mean, half the province already hates us ‘cause dad’s best pals with Vargas.” Vargas? As in, Roma Vargas, the Jarl of Riften? Interesting. He’d never once heard of that connection during his four years with the Thieves Guild.

Alfred snickered, cutting off Arthur’s thoughts. “Speaking of Vargas, I noticed Antonio’s gone. He still isn’t back from Riften?”

“Nope!” Gilbert’s smile turned positively evil, red eyes glinting dangerously. “I think he’ll get back soon, though. And maybe this time he’ll come back smelling of stolen septims and mead.”

“Don’t be immature,” Elizaveta said, smacking Gilbert on the arm.

“Oh, please, like you haven’t been rooting for it since day one. I for one believe that they should get over themselves.” Gilbert flicked a lock of snow-white hair out of his face, rolling his eyes. “Or at least the brat needs to.”

Arthur was entirely lost, _again_ , but he couldn’t be arsed to care. “Well, this catch-up is all well and good,” he said, his tone entirely aloof, “but I would like to have my gear back.”

“What, you in a hurry to leave or somethin’?” Alfred grinned at him, his eyes much brighter when they weren’t hidden behind the slightly smudged glasses.

“Yes, actually.”

“Why?”

Arthur just fixed him with a blank stare and raised a single eyebrow. “Are you joking? You said yourself that the only people who know anything about the Dragonborn are those men up on the Throat of the World.”

“The Greybeards.”

“Yes. I’m not just going to sit around while Dragons are attacking. I’d like to learn about _what I am_.” He crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at Alfred. “So I’d like my gear, and perhaps a day with the Skyforge to work with the Dragon’s bones and scales, and then I’ll be off.” He said it with a note of finality, pressing his lips together, staring Alfred down.

“Dude, we’re gonna need major coinage if you wanna get enough supplies to make it up the Seven Thousand Steps.”

“What makes you think you’re coming with me?”

Alfred just winked, flashing him an infuriating grin. “We made a deal to stick together.”

“I don’t _need_ your help.”

The look Alfred gave him, knowing and superior, made Arthur want to strangle the man. “Come on, you’re so clueless about Skyrim that you didn’t even know who the Greybeards are. No way are you gonna make it up the Seven Thousand Steps alone.”

“Are you doubting me?” Arthur’s tone was chilling, eyes unwaveringly fixed on Alfred. That bizarre energy from the Dragon was rising within him again.

Unfortunately Alfred didn’t seem to be affected. He leered, looking down on Arthur with bright blue eyes. “Yep.”

“Get a room!” Gods, Arthur had nearly forgotten that Gilbert and Elizaveta were still with them.

“Whatever, loser,” Alfred responded, sticking his tongue out at Gilbert. Then he faced Arthur again. “C’mon, if you’re so desperate for your gear it’s in my room.” He stood, stretching until his back popped and cracked. “Follow me and you can get your shit.”

Arthur stood and, for lack of any other option, followed Alfred out the door and into what appeared to be the main hall of the quarters of Jorrvaskr.

There were others milling about, warrior-types dressed in plain tunics and breeches, a good majority of them barefoot despite the cold stone floor. As Arthur passed they stared at him, watching him like a pack of wolves. Well, he did appear rather out of place. Slim and lithe, the antithesis of all the muscular people around him. Not to mention Arthur’s Bosmer heritage knocked his height down to several inches below nearly everyone else, the majority of which were Nords.

“Must they stare at me?” Arthur hissed, lengthening his strides to keep up with Alfred’s long, loping gait. “I’m not some piece of _meat_.”

For some strange reason that had Alfred cackling, obnoxious laughter booming out into the halls. Well, at least it seemed to break the bizarre tension between Arthur and the other Companions. They dispersed, although they continued to shoot him looks as he passed. It made something itch just beneath the surface of his skin.

“Why is that funny?”

Alfred, curse him, just reached out to ruffle Arthur’s hair. “Inside joke, man,” he said, still snickering and giggling like a young child. Honestly, being around Alfred made Arthur feel old.

Instead of voicing that Arthur just crossed his arms and scowled (no, he did not _pout_ ) and glanced around with distrust. “I don’t see what could possibly be so funny about me comparing myself to meat.” When he glanced at Alfred the Nord was watching him, almost like a predator might watch their prey. Shivers ran down his spine and Arthur stared resolutely at the floor.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t get it unless you were a Companion,” Alfred said, and the look in his eye was gone when Arthur looked at him again. “But it’s pretty funny. You’ve got an interesting choice of words.”

“You aren’t cannibals, are you?” Arthur asked drily, raising an eyebrow at one of the Companions when his gaze lingered just a moment longer than Arthur found appropriate. “I may be morally ambiguous but I refuse to spend time around cannibals.”

“We aren’t cannibals.” He said it with a tone of finality. Arthur couldn’t help but eye the man anyway.

Finally, the seemed to make it to Alfred’s quarters. “Here we go,” Alfred said, pushing open the wood and iron door with one arm and gesturing for Arthur to enter. “Your shit’s in here, since you’re so desperate to have it back.” Once Arthur was inside Alfred followed, letting the door swing shut. “So, Mr. Dragonborn, how soon d’you wanna set out?”

When Arthur turned, it was to see Alfred with his thumbs jammed into the hem of his pants—dragging them down to show defined hipbones—and a grin brighter than any star on his face.

“As soon as physically possible,” Arthur said, turning back to inspect the room. It was rather large for a single person; there was a massive bed shoved up against one of the walls, covered in thick furs. At the foot of the bed was a chest, nearly overflowing with armour. Hung upon the walls was all manner of weapons, from broadswords to maces to warhammers. None of them seemed to be made with the same craftsmanship as Alfred’s Stalhrim greatsword.

“There’s a chest with your stuff in the corner,” Alfred said, just as Arthur’s eyes caught it.

Immediately Arthur strode towards it, dropping to one knee the moment he reached it. He needed his gear, of course, as it was custom-made to fit him, but it was his broach that mattered most. The singular link to a life long since passed.

The broach glinted in the candlelight, surrounded by the green hills of his cloak. “Aha,” Arthur murmured, gingerly picking the broach up, holding it in the palm of one hand.

“Sick pin,” Alfred commented. Arthur turned his head to see the Nord sitting on his bed, watching Arthur with vague interest.

“Yes.”

The rest of Arthur’s gear was, in fact, there. He took it out of the chest and arranged it in folded piles and rows of his weapons. Except for his tunic. The material, once a vivid pattern of reds and blues and greens and violets, was now greyed and burned and covered in dust and blood. Arthur held it up, glaring at it in distaste. The bottom hem was ripped up and frayed, the collar the same.

“I’ll need a new tunic,” he said almost absent-mindedly.

“Dude, we can totally do some shopping here!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. Alfred was right, of course, but the man didn’t need to be so excited about spending money. “The septims I stole from that mage might not get us very far in terms of supplies,” he said in a low tone.

Alfred just scoffed. “Yeah, that’s why I’ve got money here!” There was the sound of metal and wood creaking. Arthur spun, trying to catch a glimpse of Alfred’s hiding place (he was still a thief at heart) but when he looked at Alfred the man already had a sack of septims in his lap. Arthur blinked at the canvas bag and bit his lower lip. “Alright, new rules, no stealing from each other.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur dragged his gaze away from the septims to meet Alfred’s face. “Don’t presume anything.”

“Dude, you were practically salivating over these.” Then Alfred’s grin turned positively lecherous. “Unless there’s something else in my lap that you’re salivating over—“

Arthur felt no remorse for flicking his wrist and sending Alfred flying into the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry (again) for such a long wait between chapters, midterms are awful and dragon age is addictive.
> 
> just a warning: this story is likely going to be extremely long. i won't be going through every quest in skyrim, but i will be doing my favourites, and considering how long that game is this fic will be going on for quite a while. so just a fair warning that this is going to end up being long as hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know it's been a while but like. inquisition. holy hell. i've literally been doing nothing lately but romancing iron bull and jumping around mountains, and i'll likely continue to do so. so, uh, sorry that updates are probably going to be kinda slow for a while.

“Remind me why I’m wearing this, again?” Arthur wrinkled his nose, pinching the soft material of the tunic and dragging it away from his skin. It wasn’t all that horrendous, but, well. It was made for a woman shorter than himself, and the fact that he still had to wear his braided leather belt around his waist to make the tunic fit was somewhat humiliating. Not to mention deep red did not do wonders for his Bosmer complexion.

“Quit whining,” Alfred said, staring intently at the wall of weapons in Warmaiden’s. “You’re the one who didn’t want to wear your other armour.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “People don’t have the habit of being trusting towards a member of the Dark Brotherhood.” Alfred didn’t respond. His eyes were still carefully looking over the weapons, hand on his chin. “Why are you looking for weapons? Haven’t you enough already?”

This time, Alfred responded by grabbing a beautiful golden sword from the wall and thrusting it into Arthur’s hands. “Try this,” he said, and Arthur was forced to get a grip on the hilt as Alfred took a step back.

“What in Azura’s name—“

“Is it too heavy?”

“What—“

Alfred sighed. “Dude, c’mon. Is it too heavy?” He made a swinging motion with his arms. He was wearing a nicer tunic now, but it was still sleeveless, so the shift and bulge of muscles as he moved was obvious. “Give it a few swings, test it out.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur held the sword out at arm’s length. “I don’t fight with swords.”

“Well, you’re gonna.” Without saying anything else Alfred had the sword in his hands and was marching up to the great big bear of a man behind the counter. “We’ll get this one, Ulf.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur stalked up behind Alfred, not even bothering to stop his ears from flicking in annoyance.

“Don’t mind him,” Alfred said, waving a hand in Arthur’s direction. The man behind the counter stared at Arthur for a moment, brow furrowing. Arthur stared back. Only after the man had counted out Alfred’s coins did his eyes widen and his mouth drop open.

“You’re the Dragonborn,” he said immediately, his voice rough and husky.

Arthur froze. “What?”

The man frowned. “Get out of here.” Then, his gaze went to Alfred, and the scowl deepened. “I thought you were smarter than this, Jones. Both of you get out. I don’t serve the Dragonborn here.”

“That’s absurd—“

“C’mon Artie,” Alfred said, putting a firm hand on the back of Arthur’s neck and pulling him around, steering him out of the store. “We’re gonna go.” The young man turned back, sending the man behind the counter a bright grin. “Thanks for the sword!” Then he was pulling open the door and practically shoving Arthur through it.

Once they were a few steps away Alfred chuckled. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the man. “What’s funny?”

Alfred shook his head. “Nothing, dude, don’t worry about it. Just, you’re gonna make buying things so much more difficult with that reputation of yours.” Before Arthur could retort he was being pulled along by Alfred. “C’mon, let’s go get you another tunic! I bet Belethor’s got something!”

“I can’t imagine it being too high quality,” Arthur said with a scowl.

Alfred apparently wasn’t listening, or he was simply choosing to ignore Arthur’s complaints. “While we’re there we can get some travelling supplies. We’re gonna need bedrolls. No tent yet, we can get one in another village, it’s not cold enough at night to need a tent. And you’ll need a backpack.” Alfred flashed a grin in Arthur’s direction. “Once we get all that and do some work at Skyforge we can head out!”

“Actually,” Arthur said, fingers twitching, “I’d like to see what sort of supplies Whiterun’s court wizard has. We ought to stock up on potions, and perhaps I can get a few spellbooks.”

“If you want, that’s cool.”

It was a pleasant morning. After retrieving his things, Arthur had been informed that the Sun was just rising, so he dressed in some proper clothing (a blood red tunic and tight breeches from Elizaveta) and together Arthur and Alfred left the living quarters of Jorrvaskr. When they’d gotten up to the hall, it was already filled with people; they were loud and rowdy and tore into their food like animals, and continued to watch Arthur’s every move.

As they made their way to Belethor’s General Goods (which was between Warmaiden’s and Jorrvaskr, so Arthur didn’t know why they hadn’t gone there first) a slight breeze picked up. Arthur took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. It felt greasy and dirty. He frowned.

“I presume you have some sort of bathing system at Jorrvaskr.”

“Oh, yeah!” Again, that infuriatingly bright grin was directed Arthur’s way. It felt warmer than the Sun shining down on them. “We totally have to get cleaned before heading out!”

Just like Alfred had said, they stopped at Belethor’s for a tunic and supplies, and then Arthur insisted on heading back to Jorrvaskr.

“Why not just go straight to Dragonsreach?”

Arthur scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Do you honestly think I’m going to visit the court wizard like this? To be frank, both of us look like shit, and I’d rather give a good impression. Azura knows I need to, what with being the Dragonborn and all.”

Alfred shrugged, marching up the steps to Jorrvaskr, a canvas bag of their supplies in one hand and Arthur’s new sword in the other. He refused to let Arthur carry anything. It was a tad insulting, but Arthur couldn’t be arsed to care. “Lemme just drop this shit in my room and then we can use the community bath.” That sounded _lovely_.

Well, except for the fact that, it being a community bath, there would be other Companions there. Arthur wasn’t keen on sharing with Alfred; he certainly didn’t want to bathe with a whole group of muscled warriors. He wasn’t ashamed of his body by any means—no, he was muscular in a different way, and probably far more flexible than any of them could be—but it was awkward to see the difference in muscle mass.

Ah well. Getting clean would be worth it.

Alfred shouldered open the door to Jorrvaskr, holding it open for Arthur to pass through and then letting it fall shut behind them. Together they started towards the stairs into the underground quarters—only to be stopped by the red-eyed Daedra wannabe Gilbert.

“Hey, you’re back!” He grinned at them, sharp teeth glinting in the dim candlelight. “Gonna eat anything before you head out?”

Alfred caught Arthur’s eye. “Dude, c’mon!” He looked like a child, begging with his eyes.

Sighing, Arthur crossed his arms. “Fine. We’ll eat. But immediately after we’re done we’re using the Skyforge, getting cleaned up, and then we’re leaving.”

Alfred let out a holler as he transferred the bag and the sword to one hand, grabbing Arthur with the other and dragging him over to the tables. The cacophonous din of the room made Arthur wince as they drew nearer, but Alfred didn’t seem to mind; the Nord took a seat next to Gilbert, practically pulling Arthur down beside him. They were sitting across from Elizaveta, a blond with slicked-back hair and a face similar to Gilbert’s, and another man with dark hair and a mole on his face. The three of them seemed to be the only people _not_ eating like bloody animals.

“Bruder, Liz, Prissdick—“

“ _Excuse me—_ “

“This is Alfred’s new ‘ _thing_ ’—“

It was Arthur’s turn to be insulted. “ _You—_ “

“His name is Arthur and he’s the Dragonborn!”

Complete and utter silence. Not just from the trio across the table but from everyone in the hall. Impossibly, they’d all heard Gilbert’s shouting, despite the level of noise.

After a few moments of the silence—and everyone _staring_ at him again—Arthur leaned closer to Alfred’s side. “They aren’t going to kill me, are they?” he asked in a low voice, keen eyes scanning the silent crowd of Companions. There were at least a dozen of them. Probably far too many for Arthur to take alone, considering he had only magic and a sword he’d never been trained to use.

Alfred never had the chance to a respond.

One of the Companions stood. He seemed different from the rest. Older, and stronger, but there was something in his eyes that was significantly wiser, as though he’d seen so much more than they could ever hope to. Long, pale blond hair hung around his shoulders, streaked with white. The resemblance he shared with Gilbert—and the blond man sitting across from Arthur—was astounding.

“Gilbert,” the man said, his voice low and commanding, although not particularly loud. “What did you say?”

Gilbert grinned, teeth covered in the blood of whatever animal he’d been eating, looking more like a vampire than ever. “This is Arthur, he’s the Dragonborn!”

The man’s expression didn’t change. “Why is he here?”

This time it was Alfred who piped up. “He’s travelling with me, Sir.” Sir, huh? Arthur never would’ve expected Alfred to even be _capable_ of respect, but apparently this man was important. “He’s not evil or anything. Well, mostly.”

“You aren’t helping,” Arthur hissed, elbowing Alfred’s ribs.

“I’m telling the truth,” Alfred said back, eyes alight with laughter. Sithis damn him, this boy loved danger, didn’t he. Wonderful. Arthur should’ve known from the Nord’s insistence on fighting the Wildlings back when they’d first met.

“Do you trust him?” were the next words the man spoke.

Alfred nodded. “Yessir.”

Hm. Nobody had really trusted Arthur for years. Probably not since his brothers.

“And you don’t believe him to be evil.”

Alfred shrugged. “Not in the way you’re thinking. Morally ambiguous, maybe.” This child was going to get Arthur killed. Bloody hell.

There was a curt silence. Then, the man nodded. “I will trust your judgement.” He sighed, closing his eyes. “And next time, Gilbert, please come to me immediately in matters such as this.”

Gilbert grinned. “Sure thing, pa!”

So it _was_ Gilbert’s father. Which meant that man was the Harbinger of the Companions. He trusted _Alfred’s_ judgement? Well.

Gilbert chewed for a moment, looking almost thoughtfully at where his father had returned to his seat. “That went better than expected.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” It came from the man across from them, the one who was nearly identical to the Harbinger. “Gods, you’re disgusting, bruder.” Again with that word. Arthur didn’t know it, but it was clearly in some Nordic language, and it obviously meant ‘brother’.

Cackling, Gilbert reached over with a greasy hand to ruffle the other man’s hair, pulling it loose from the slicked-back style. “Get that stick out of your ass, West!”

The dark haired man sitting next to Elizaveta scowled at all of them. “This is utterly ridiculous,” he said, in an accent similar to Gilbert’s. Violet eyes locked with Arthur and the man glared, lips pursed, an air of haughty superiority surrounding him. Arthur just stared back. “You can’t possibly expect me to trust this man, he is the Dragonborn _and_ he just seems shifty in general.”

Arthur scoffed. “Ha, you’re right to trust your judgement.”

The man’s eyes widened. “Jones!”

“ _Relax_ , Rod, the guy’s not really dangerous unless there’s money involved. He’s a thief, not some horrible scary evil guy!” Alfred laughed, the sound nearly swallowed by the noise around them. “Right, Artie?”

Arthur bristled. “Don’t call me that, wanker!”

“Haha, dude, you really gotta relax!”

“I do not _‘gotta’_ do anything you big blundering oaf!”

Elizaveta stood and slammed her iron tankard on the wooden table. “Enough! The both of you are acting like children and we haven’t even introduced Arthur to Lud or Rod!” Chest heaving, she sat back down. “Now, we will be civil.” Green eyes met Arthur’s. “Arthur, this is Ludwig, Gilbert’s younger brother.” She gestured to the blond man to her right, who met Arthur’s gaze with a nod and a brisk ‘hello’ before looking away. Younger, huh. The boy certainly appeared larger than Gilbert. “And this is my beau, Roderich.”

Roderich was a slender, pale man. He certainly looked more suited for the Mage’s College than the Companions. Elizaveta could probably break the man in half.

After that Arthur fell out of conversation for a while. He truly was hungry, so he ate—and admittedly, the food was bloody delicious. The Companions were carrying on conversations Arthur suspected had originated long before he ever arrived. Even Elizaveta piped in every so often, although she seemed more interested in watching Arthur.

Finally, she actually spoke to him. “I apologize for asking, but what was it like?”

“What was what like?”

Elizaveta blushed a pretty pink colour. “Ah, the Dragon’s soul. Sorry for not being clear.”

Arthur thought about it for a moment. “It was . . . _incredible_ , to be perfectly honest. Power like that . . . well, it isn’t something one experiences every day.”

Her eyes lit up, warm and green, reflecting the candlelight. “That sounds amazing,” she said, smiling softly at him. “So, ah, you and Alfred are going to visit the Greybeards?” Arthur nodded. “Good luck, then!” Her smile widened. “What you are, Arthur, could really become a power for good!”

Arthur rather liked Elizaveta, he decided. He smiled slightly, looking down at his plate. “I suppose it could.”

“Many people believe it makes you evil, but I don’t think you are. Perhaps just . . . neutral.” Well, it was certainly true that Arthur was no hero. “But I think you could do great things! Of course, you’ll need to convince the rest of Skyrim of this, but if you can make Alfred and Gil and even Alaric trust you, then I’m sure you’ll do it!”

Arthur shrugged. “Well, it’s not as though I’m used to people trusting me.”

Alfred suddenly decided it was time to insert himself into the conversation, clapping a broad hand between Arthur’s shoulder blades. “Dude, I trust you now!” He frowned. “Mostly. Still don’t trust you not to steal my septims.”

Smirking, Arthur took a sip of water from his tankard. “Can’t fight instincts, boy.”

“Don’t I know it.”

♠       ♠       ♠       

“So, the one on the right is the cold bath,” Alfred was saying, gesturing out over the room with a sweep of his arm. “The one on the left is heated. Just do whatever you want, man!”

Arthur stared at the room, narrowing his eyes slightly. It was a massive stone cavern, rather similar to the Ragged Flagon Cistern in design, two pools of water on either side, torches lining the walls sporadically. Bottles of various oils and soaps sat along the edges of the pools. Nearest to Arthur and Alfred was a massive wooden rack, covered in haphazardly thrown tunics and pants, a collection of boots and shoes tossed beneath it. Arthur narrowed his eyes at the mess.

“You Companions don’t seem to understand the concept of cleaning up after yourselves, do you,” Arthur said with a smirk. “I hate to pass judgement but you really are a bunch of brutes—“

“Arthur.” Arthur spun at the sound of Alfred saying his name in a low tone. His eyes widened, a flush rising to his cheeks. There Alfred stood, tunic halfway up his abdomen, muscles clearly defined even in the low light. _Well_. Blinking rapidly, Arthur tried to shake away the arousal. Their eyes locked, Alfred’s nose twitched, and then the Nord barked out an obnoxiously loud laugh and tore the shirt off completely. It was all Arthur could do to stop himself from salivating. Alfred was long and lean and muscled, skin sun-kissed and golden, a collection of old, pale scars criss-crossing his chest and Arthur wondered offhandedly at the story behind each one. For the first time, Arthur noticed something silver nested in the hollow of Alfred’s collarbones, hanging from a chain around his neck.

Still laughing, Alfred approached him, and Arthur began undressing himself when he realized that there _were_ other people in the baths and he didn’t want to make more of a fool of himself than he already had. As Alfred passed by his arm brushed against Arthur’s, the skin radiating warmth. Arthur scowled at his own inability to maintain composure.

Arthur refused to look up until he heard Alfred splash into the water on his right. By that time, Arthur was also naked, and he felt far too thin and pale compared to the warriors around him. Still, he wasn’t one to be ashamed of himself; Arthur held his head high, an expression of cool distaste on his face, and marched over to the warm baths.

Washing himself was liberating. He’d been caked in blood and dirt for so long—hadn’t had access to anything better than streams and lakes long before taking the contract—and finally scrubbing his pale skin clean felt good in a sort of indescribable way. With one of the many oils, this one smelling of pine and smoke, he washed away the thin layer of grime to reveal the light scattering of freckles dusting his skin.

Letting out a sigh, Arthur sunk low in the water and lifted his leg, feeling at the wound. Nothing but scar tissue now, and even that would fade eventually. He smiled, letting his eyes flutter shut. A few more minutes of soaking, he’d wash his hair, and then all would be well.

The water was pleasantly hot, likely heated by some sort of magic. Had he more time Arthur would’ve loved to investigate.

After a few minutes had gone by, Arthur leaned back so his hair was submerged, running his fingers through it and scratching them against his scalp. Without opening his eyes he grabbed at the bottle of oil he’d been using before, pouring it on his head then setting it down so he could run it through his wet hair. Once his scalp had been thoroughly coated Arthur dipped his head back, washing the oil from his now clean head.

Taking a deep breath, Arthur pushed himself to his feet, climbing out of the pool and into the refreshingly cool air of the cavern. His feet slapped against the stone as he made his way over to what seemed to be a rack covered in linen bathing robes.

He tensed at the sound of footsteps coming up from behind him, only relaxing slightly when Alfred fell into step beside him. Making the mistake of glancing at him, Arthur had to choke back a sound, considering Alfred was still naked and Azura, he was _wet_ , beads of water running down the muscles of his abdomen. Entirely unfair.

In silence—Arthur didn’t think it possible—they each grabbed a bathing robe and wrapped themselves in it. The shoulders of the robe hung loosely on Arthur’s slim frame, an excess of fabric bunched around his waist where he’d pulled the drawstring of the robe tight.

“C’mon,” Alfred said, grinning at Arthur, his wet hair a rich, dark gold, strands of it hanging in front of bright blue eyes. “Liz can give you some more clothes and then we can head to Dragonsreach.”

Arthur nodded. “Alright.” Apparently they were simply leaving their dirty clothes on the rack. Arthur guessed that they would be taken to be cleaned.

Alfred leading the way, they pushed open a small wooden door and re-entered the main hall of the Jorrvaskr living quarters. Elizaveta lived with Roderich in a room at the far end of the hall, on the other side of the hall from where Alfred’s quarters were. Her door was open when they arrived; she was sitting on her bed, a beautiful warhammer that appeared to be made of malachite and moonstone sitting across her lap. She looked up from polishing the head and smiled at them both.

“You look better,” she said, setting the warhammer to the side with one hand as though it didn’t weigh a ton. “Here, let me get you some new clothes.” The chest filled with her clothing was on the other end of her room. After sorting through it, she produced a rich blue tunic embroidered with silvery thread, along with a pair of black pants. “I know that you want to visit Dragonsreach, so here are some of my nicer clothes!”

“Thank you,” Arthur said, somewhat unused to being given (if only temporarily) such nice things. “Sincerely. You’ve been too kind.”

Elizaveta shrugged. “Well, I always try to treat people with respect, especially someone who has gained the trust of one of my Brothers.”

“Even though I’m the Dragonborn.”

A blush rising on her cheeks, Elizaveta nonetheless nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I mean, I am, well, unsure around you. Everything I’ve ever heard about the Dragonborn has been absolutely awful, but seeing you here—“

“Makes you realize he’s not what everyone says?”

Elizaveta’s eyes flashed up to Alfred, smile softening. “Yes.” Then she caught Arthur’s gaze again. “If I don’t see you again before the two of you leave, I wish you luck.”

Nearly rendered speechless, Arthur stared at her with wide eyes. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it completely. It had been _so long_ since he’d known someone like Elizaveta; someone who treated people with kindness not for any sort of personal gain, but because she felt it was _right_. Sithis knew _Arthur_ wasn’t one of those people.

Clothes in his arms, Arthur allowed Alfred to lead them back to Alfred’s quarters. Once they were inside Alfred collapsed on the bed, letting out a rather loud sigh. It was silent for a while after that.

Arthur let the bathing robe fall to the floor and puddle at his feet. He could feel a gaze on him but he resolutely ignored it, dressing as quickly and efficiently as possible in the clothes Elizaveta had provided him.

“I meant it,” Alfred said finally, making Arthur pause as he was arranging Elizaveta’s tunic over his slim shoulders. Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur gave Alfred a questioning look. Again the Nord sighed, pushing himself up so he was sitting properly. “Y’know. About the whole ‘you aren’t what they say you are’ thing.”

“Oh?” Not knowing where Alfred was going with this made Arthur nervous.

“Yeah. Like, you’re a thief, and a murderer, and you seem to kinda take advantage of any opportunity given to you even if it’s morally unsound or whatever,” Arthur scowled, “but you aren’t evil. I dunno, just something about you doesn’t seem _bad_.”

Arthur hummed. Instead of responding he pulled on his boots, wondering how quickly Alfred’s opinion would change.

♠       ♠       ♠       

Once Arthur’s hair was dry—and he absolutely _refused_ to do what Alfred had done, which was shake his head about like some sort of dog—he stuck his newly improved Dragonbone dagger between his thin leather belt and Elizaveta’s tunic. He couldn’t go walking around without a weapon. Alfred agreed; the man had on a nicer tunic, this one a dark red and patterned with gold, but he still strapped the holster for his greatsword around his chest.

“Ready to go?” Alfred asked, running a hand through his still-damp hair and scowling at Arthur like a petulant child. “C’mon, dude, you take _forever_ to get ready.”

Smirking, Arthur glanced at his reflection in one of Alfred’s many shields one last time, pushing a stray strand of hair back into place. “Honestly, you’re like a child,” he said, relishing in Alfred’s choked little noise of annoyance. “It won’t _kill_ you to wait an extra few moments.”

“Since _you’re_ suddenly all about patience, why don’t we stay in Whiterun for a few more days? I mean, it won’t _kill_ you to wait a few extra days.” He’d said the last part in a mocking imitation of Arthur’s accent. When Arthur turned to glare at him, Alfred was grinning smugly and leaning against his doorframe. “What, old man, you can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur put a hand delicately on the hilt of his dagger. “You’re so _childish_ ,” he hissed.

“At least I act my age.”

“ _What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?_ ” Arthur all but screamed, temper flashing dangerously, the Dragon’s power rising within him.

“Means you act like a fucking _geezer_! Would it kill you to loosen up once in a while? Have some fun? Do something just because you want to?”

“I don’t have the _luxury_ ,” Arthur said. “Especially not now that I’m apparently hated by everyone in this Gods-forsaken province. There’s no time for _fun_ when I don’t know what I am.”

“Pretty sad way to live,” Alfred said casually, as though they were discussing the weather. Arthur ignored him. Before, when Arthur had been a student at the College, he’d been a bit more . . . relaxed. But since he’d left there’d never been time. Alfred didn’t seem like the kind of person who could possibly understand, so Arthur turned away from Alfred’s gaze and entered the main hall of the sleeping quarters again.

“Come on,” he said, voice neutral. “We ought to be going now.”

Alfred snorted. “Yeah. Fine.” The Nord sounded strangely . . . angry, for reasons Arthur couldn’t place. “Let’s go to Dragonsreach for your dumb little magic books.”

“That’s funny, I don’t remember my magic being ‘dumb’ when I killed all of those Wildlings,” Arthur said with a smirk, walking purposefully towards the door leading into the main hall of Jorrvaskr. “Nor when I freed you from those chains. Or when I started the fire?” A self-satisfied feeling blossomed in his chest when Alfred made a grumbling noise of discontent. “Those ‘dumb little magic books’ could save your life someday, _boy_ , so I wouldn’t be so disapproving of them.”

“Ugh, let’s just go.”

The noise level in the main hall made Arthur’s head hurt, sensitive ears twitching slightly at the sudden change from relative silence to booming chatter. These Companions certainly were a rowdy bunch. Alfred fit right in; the man perked up visibly at the sound, resembling a puppy receiving food.

Arthur didn’t recognize any of the other Companions, although Alfred waved at all of them and grinned wide, shouting out a quick, “we’ll be back in a bit!” before the two of them stepped outside and into blessed calm. Compared to the din of Jorrvaskr, the markets of Whiterun were like the wilderness of The Winterhold. Taking a deep breath, Arthur looked up to the towering structure of Dragonsreach—and then winced as a loud, obnoxious voice filled his head.

“We are but maggots, writhing in the filth of our own corruption! While you have ascended from the dung of mortality, and now walk among the stars!”

As they passed Arthur gave the preacher a glare, tempted to set the man’s robes on fire—only slightly, of course, but enough to inconvenience him. Once they were climbing the steps to Dragonsreach Arthur nudged Alfred in the side. “Must he be so . . .”

“Annoying?”

Arthur furrowed his brows. When he glanced at Alfred, the man was squinting back at the preacher through his glasses. “So you _don’t_ agree with him then?”

With a shrug, Alfred continued climbing the steps. “Don’t get me wrong, I believe in Talos as much as any Nord. But that guy—well, he’s not helping at all. Standing there yelling at people isn’t going to stop the Thalmor from killing Talos worshippers.” After a moment of consideration, he met Arthur’s eyes, his gaze bizarrely serious. “Neither is hating everyone who isn’t a Nord and doesn’t worship Talos.”

That almost came as a shock to Arthur. “So, you don’t support Braginski.”

A swift shake of Alfred’s head, golden hair gleaming in the daylight, gave Arthur his answer. “No. He’s an extremist, not to mention mega racist. I mean, I get where he’s coming from, but nothing’s gonna be solved by trying to clear out everyone who isn’t a Nord.”

“That’s surprisingly advanced thinking.”

Alfred made a noise of discontent. “What, you don’t think I can be smart? Trust me, old man, I know how this shit works. All my best friends used to be Dunmer back in Windhelm.” There was a maturity in his face as he glared into the distance. Moments later his eyes flicked to Arthur, less angry now. “Have you ever been to Windhelm?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes, because I’m sure a mage with Bosmer heritage would be _very_ welcome there.”

“So you haven’t?”

“Never had a reason.”

They were silent as the approached the doors of Dragonsreach. Alfred pushed open the tall wooden door, holding it open for Arthur as he said, “you wouldn’t like it.”

Dragonsreach was warm, although not uncomfortably so. Candlelight cast flickering shadows along the floor. The well-lit, massive room was filled with a delicious scent of a glorious feast that had been set along the tables for lunch; baked bread, chicken covered in gravy, carrots and cabbage and corn all boiled and seasoned. It was simply mouth-watering. Had Arthur not eaten in Jorrvaskr, he’d likely be sneaking some food from the table.

“Fuck, I’m starving,” Alfred said in a low whine, blue eyes gazing forlornly at the meal.

“We just ate.”

“Yeah, but—“

“Excuse me.” Arthur glanced at the source of the voice to see a Dunmer woman standing before them, hand on the hilt of her sword. “What is the meaning of this? Jarl Balgruuf is not accepting visitors at this time.” She narrowed her red eyes at them and stared at them as though she thought they might try to kill her.

Arthur barely resisted rolling his eyes. “I’m not here to see the Jarl,” he said, fixing the woman with a stare of his own. “I wish only to see his Court Wizard.”

“Farengar is not taking visitors either.”

“Uh, it’s his job to provide service to the people of Whiterun, isn’t it? I mean, that’d be like if the Companions suddenly stopped helping people!” Alfred gave the woman a blinding smile; Arthur had noticed that it seemed to be Alfred’s automatic defense.

“I’m sorry, but Dragonsreach is not accepting visitors.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur took a quarter-step closer and the woman’s hand tightened ever so slightly on the hilt of her sword. “And why is that?”

“That is the Jarl’s business.”

“And if I were to say that both of us were present when the Dragon attacked the village?”

Her eyes widened ever so slightly and Arthur knew that he had her. After a moment the surprise vanished from her face and she resumed the brusqueness. “Follow me,” she said, turning and marching straight for the Jarl. “Don’t try anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Alfred snorted. “Man,” he said, in a voice so low even Arthur could barely hear, “people sure are gonna hate me a lot for hanging out with you.”

“Well, perhaps you ought to leave me alone, then.”

“Not gonna work that easily.”

“Jarl Balgruuf?” The woman had stopped in front of the Jarl, dipping her head in respect. “These men say they have news on Helgen.”

When the Jarl’s eyes met his, Arthur did not look away, or dip his head, as would be appropriate. He simply stared back. The Jarl of a pleasant little place like Whiterun did not frighten him. They gazed at each other for a time; then, the Jarl glanced over to Alfred, and Arthur felt a small sense of victory.

“So, you were in Helgen?”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. Might I speak with your Court Wizard?”

The Jarl frowned. “I’m sorry, but I have a great deal of questions about what happened. You must answer; I was unaware that anyone had survived.”

With a shrug, Arthur rolled his eyes. “I would be surprised if they had. A whole lot of Imperial soldiers and prisoners. Most of them can’t have made it very far before the Dragon killed them.”

“How did you escape?”

Arthur allowed Alfred to explain that one. At least the young man was brief; no heroics, simply a retelling of events. Apparently he could understand that Arthur was in a bit of a hurry. When Alfred was done the Jarl seemed surprised.

“And nobody else followed?”

“Not that we know of,” Arthur said. “ _Now_ may I speak with the Wizard?”

“So, what was it like? Seeing the Dragon?”

Speaking truthfully, Arthur said, “I prefer not to recall it.” He _really_ did not need a nosebleed _here_ of all places.

“I respect that.” There was a moment of silence, the Jarl stared at him—and then the man’s eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed and it was as though he’d just realized something rather shocking. “It’s you,” he said, eyes still fixated on Arthur’s face. “I knew your face was familiar. You’re the Dragonborn the men reported.”

The moment the words were out of his mouth there was a sword pointed at Arthur’s chest, nearly pressed against the fabric of Elizaveta’s tunic. Arthur took a step back and locked eyes with the Dunmer; she simply stared back, cold rage settled in her harsh features.

“Probably the eyebrows,” Alfred said under his breath.

“Leave,” the Dunmer said, but Jarl Balgruuf held up his hand and stood, taking a step towards Arthur. Despite being a little on the short side for a Nord, the man still towered over Arthur—yet, he was anything but intimidating.

“Why have you come here, Dragonborn?”

“Spellbooks,” was Arthur’s honest answer. He didn’t give a damn about anything else.

A moment of contemplation. Then, the Jarl nodded his head in the direction of the Court Wizard. “You are a citizen of Skyrim, so you may purchase books once we’ve spoken. Please leave immediately after you’ve finished.”

“Gladly,” Arthur hissed, too quiet to be heard, and Alfred snickered.

The Jarl nodded. “So. You’re the Dragonborn; do you think the Dragon attacked because they were about to kill you?” There was something dangerous in his tone.

“What you’re asking is if the Dragon appeared to rescue me.” Face emotionless, Arthur stared at the Jarl in apathy. “The answer is no. The Dragon attacked me before anything else, so I doubt he meant to save me. And then he attacked me again as well.”

“Who else was there?”

“Imperial soldiers, other prisoners, Ivan Braginski.”

“Why were you arrested?”

“It wasn’t for anything related to Dragons, if you’re wondering. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

“Why do you think the Dragon attacked you?”

“Perhaps the Dragons hate me as much as all of you.”

Finally, the Jarl nodded. “Alright. I’m finished with you. Make your purchases and then please leave.” He returned to his throne, sitting down with a weary sigh. Arthur hated the man; not because he was untrusting of Arthur, but because he was so . . . unintimidating.

Now that they were finished being questioned Arthur marched away, heading for the Court Wizard. He seemed very absorbed in what he was doing; staring at a collection of scrolls and occasionally marking things down on a massive map of Skyrim.

“Hello,” Arthur said, maintaining politeness. The man didn’t bother looking up. After a moment Arthur said, “excuse me,” and he received a disdainful glare.

“I’m rather busy.”

“As am I, so I’d appreciate it if I could make some purchases and be on my way.”

The wizard rolled his eyes, motioning to a chest next to his map. “Anything that is for sale can be found there. Amuse yourself and then begone.”

Two purchased spellbooks and several impulsively stolen items later, they left Dragonsreach.

“So, I guess we head out now,” Alfred said, stretching his arms up to the sky as they descended the steps, the gold threading on his tunic catching the daylight and shimmering. “You ready? We should go to Riverwood, way easier to cut through the mountain than to go around it.”

“You don’t think they’ll be angry that I stole a horse?”

“Eh.” Alfred shrugged. “We can deal with it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more banter. this story is going to be quite the slow burn in terms of plot, considering there's just so much of it. plus i just love writing banter and filler and fluff.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is no excuse for this
> 
> props to drownink for commenting and reminding me that this fic still exists, you're the reason i started working on it again

"We paid too much for this horse," Arthur said, steering the skittish animal back onto the path. The mare whinnied and made a nervous chittering noise and Arthur frowned. "I would've much preferred to just steal it. Then at the very least I wouldn't have wasted money."

" _I_  wouldn't have wasted money, you mean." Alfred was a few metres ahead, yet somehow he'd still heard Arthur complaining. "It was my coin we bought that thing with."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "The horse is still nearly lame regardless."

"You aren't stealing from the Whiterun stables." It was frustrating that Alfred was further ahead, but Arthur couldn't get his damn horse to get anywhere near the behemoth that was Liberty. "I don't want a bounty in the Hold where I live. Anyway, you'll be fine, so quit complaining like some crotchety grandpa. Aren't you, like, twenty-three? Isn't that a kid in Mer years?"

Rolling his eyes once again, Arthur briefly contemplated setting Alfred's hair alight—only for a moment, of course. "Do I look like a child to you?"

"Well, you are pretty small . . ." The smirk in Alfred's voice was audible.

Arthur returned the smirk at the back of Alfred's head. "I'd rather have the body of a child than the mind of one. One can only wonder how you've managed to survive for so long despite being such a simpleton." Alfred made a little offended noise, turning his head to glare at Arthur. "Then again, even the dumbest mudcrab can keep itself alive, so I suppose it isn't too much of a miracle."

"Since we're sharing our feelings, can I just say that you're the worst excuse for an ex-Dark Brotherhood member I've ever seen."

Wild rage flared up in Arthur's mind. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Alfred was preening now, holding his head just a touch higher than usual, giving Arthur a glance from the corner of his eye. "Aren't you supposed to be unaffected by your fears? Dragons sure scare you."

"Listen, _boy_ ," Arthur said, something low and rumbling in his tone. There was an itch in his throat and he wanted to purge it but didn't know how. "If you're calling me a coward you're _sorely_ mistaken. I could tear you apart with a flick of my wrist and you'd best not forget."

Apparently that was enough to make Alfred stop. He halted Liberty right in the centre of the road, spinning her so that he was facing Arthur and his mare.

"You sure about that?"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, hands tightening on the reins of his horse. "Certain."

"I could tear _you_ apart," Alfred said through clenched teeth, his jaw locked and blue eyes blazing with something Arthur couldn't quite place as anger. The Nord's voice was unsettlingly quiet. "Don't test me." He cocked his head to the side, and the fire in his eyes intensified. "Sometimes I can't restrain myself."

There was something in his voice that made Arthur shiver. Despite that, Arthur stood his ground, keeping his head held high and refusing to concede defeat in whatever bizarre game they were playing. For some reason his instincts were urging him to submit, to continue on his way and not push Alfred even further. He ignored them.

"It's dangerous to anger a mage."

"And it's dangerous to anger _me_.”

Their battle of wills continued; it was no more than the two of them facing each other in the road, but neither was going to back down. Arthur knew his own patience, knew that eventually Alfred would grow tired of this game. 

After a full minute of silence, Alfred flashed a toothy grin, although the danger in his eyes was still present. "I'm impressed," he said, sunlight glinting off of his glasses. "You're probably the first."

"The first to challenge you?"

Shaking his head, Alfred turned Liberty around and continued down the road. "The first to challenge me and not back down." When he glanced back, the sunlight caught his golden hair and Arthur felt a tightening in his stomach. "You're alright, Arthur."

Bewildered and still somewhat furious, Arthur followed. Whatever had just happened, apparently it was over. Alfred was more confusing than Arthur could've guessed.

His next words were even more puzzling. Still facing forward, Alfred called back a cavalier, "just be careful."

♠       ♠       ♠             

The rest of the ride was spent in relative silence, leaving Arthur plenty of time to try and contemplate exactly what had happened. Alfred's behaviour made no apparent sense; one moment he was threatening Arthur, the next he was giving him a strange sort of respect. The Nord was nearly impossible to comprehend.

"We can camp here for the night," Alfred said, pulling Liberty up to a small opening in the cliffside. Beyond the opening was nothing more than a shallow cave, much like the one they'd stayed in previously, but it would be enough to keep them from the elements _and_ shield them from the road. "Gimme your bag, I'll set shit up while you deal with the horses."

Arthur nodded, climbing down off his mare and handing his rucksack to Alfred. While the boy busied himself with that Arthur soothed the skittish horse, petting her nose and staring into wild eyes. "Come now," he said, smiling slightly. "We're stopping for the night, you can have a chance to rest."

She nickered softly, obviously still nervous, but Arthur's Bosmer heritage was rather useful for this sort of thing. When he tied her reins to a branch growing from the cliff she got nervous again.

"It's alright," Arthur said, hushing the poor creature. "It won't be so bad." 

When she was finally calmed he turned to Liberty. The beautiful horse was simply standing there, watching Arthur with dark eyes. Arthur approached her and she dipped her head, allowing him to pet her nose.

"She doesn't need to be tied up," Alfred said. Startled, Arthur turned to see the Nord leaning against the cliffside with his arms crossed, watching the two of them with a fond expression on his face. "She'll never run."

Nodding, Arthur turned back to Liberty. "Really?"

"Yeah. She's my horse, she won't run away from me. Right, Lib?" Now Alfred approached and Liberty gently pushed past Arthur to get to him. "Sorry for all the travel," he said to the horse, and Arthur took a step back to simply watch. The two of them—standing with each other, Alfred's hand on Liberty's neck—were like some sort of perfect match.

It was bizarre to see Alfred so . . . gentle. Instead of watching any longer Arthur slipped into the small cavern. Their bedrolls were on opposite sides of the enclosed space; Arthur's along the back wall and Alfred's right next to the entrance.

The day—as relaxed as it had been—was starting to take its toll on Arthur. He yawned and stretched, the bones in his spine popping, and then got down and climbed into his bedroll. Back facing the entrance, he stared at the cave wall with tired eyes. Things were very . . . different, now. Having another person alongside him constantly was rather disorienting. The fact that this person didn't fear him—even after learning that Arthur was the Dragonborn—was just altogether baffling. 

Arthur's ability to inspire fear in others was one of his greatest defences, and now this Nord boy had completely dismantled that. Without it Arthur wasn't quite sure how to interact with Alfred. It had been quite a while since he'd bothered with having friends.

In any case, this wasn't exactly the right time to be contemplating this. Arthur tried to clear his mind and ignored the sound of Alfred climbing into his own bedroll. Sleep was a precious luxury when travelling. He'd best take advantage of it.

His sleep was somewhat fitful, bizarre dreams filling his mind, wisps of images floating through his brain and then disappearing before he could make sense of them. When he woke, it was immediate, his eyes flashing open to the sounds of some sort of struggle.

Arthur sat up, silently climbing out of his fur bedroll and grabbing the Dragonbone dagger next to his pillow. When he looked around the cave Alfred was already gone. Dammit. Frustrated at being left out of it, Arthur left the cave and stepped into the pale light of a sky just before dawn.

First he noticed that Alfred was effortlessly holding a man against the wall of the cliff with one hand, glaring at him. And then Arthur saw his mare. She had collapsed on the ground, blood spilling from a cut in her belly, making feeble noises of panic and distress and pain.

Perhaps it was his Bosmer blood, but an animal in such pain made him feel sick. "What's going on here?" he said, voice dangerously low.

"Thief," Alfred said, indicating the man he was holding with a nod of his head. "He cut your mare and he was going to try to steal Liberty."

The thief, a skinny little man with red hair, ruddy cheeks and beady eyes, frowned at both of them. "That damn horse is wild!" His eyes locked on Liberty, who was standing there pawing at the ground with her hoof. "She's unrideable!" 

"No, she's loyal."

Carefully, Arthur knelt next to his mare. Her blood seeped into the bottom of his tunic but he didn't much care; with one hand he petted along her neck, trying to calm the poor beast. "Why kill her? It's clear that she could never catch up to Liberty if you had ever managed to take her." Arthur glared at the man, cold rage building within him. "There was no reason to kill her, and certainly not in such a cruel manner."

The thief shrugged, watching Arthur warily. "It just seemed . . . smarter."

"It wasn't." Arthur ignored the man then, turning his full attention back to the mare. She was beyond his help—regeneration magic had never been his strongest—and clearly in pain. Murmuring a quiet apology, he pressed his hands to her flank and let loose a bolt of pure destruction magic. Casting without spells had always been a special talent of his. The mare fell still.

"Should we let him go?"

Hands still tingling from the pure magic, Arthur stood. "I don't care." He raised an eyebrow at the thief. "What made you think this was a good idea?"

"That golden horse could get a lot of money."

"It would have been smarter to kill us first." Arthur took a step forward, twirling the Dragonbone dagger in one hand. "That was sloppy. Disgraceful, even."

"Arthur?"

"Let him go if you want, but I'd like to uphold an old Thieves Guild tradition first."

Eyes widening, the thief's eyes flashed from Arthur's face—a face he knew gave off nothing but cold contempt—and the dagger twirling in his hand. "Wait, wait, what are you going to do to me?"

A strange sort of calm had settled over Arthur, cold and unfeeling as he approached. "You haven't heard the stories, then? It's something I've seen many times. The Thieves Guild does not appreciate it when members of their organization get caught." Arthur was close enough now that he could grab the thief's hand. "If you make a mistake, you deserve to live with it." And then, without warning, he positioned the dagger over the man's skin and pressed in, starting to write.

Warm trickles of blood flowed over Arthur's gloved hands as the thief made a surprised noise of pain. The thief struggled and Alfred kept him still, something Arthur was grateful for; it wasn't as bad of a brand if the print was illegible. 

When he was finished, he held the man's hand in both of his own and admired the work. 'THIEF', written in elegant letters, the cuts of the letters clean and smooth. Blood obscured some of the writing but that would wash away, and then there would be nothing but a very obvious scar. "To remind you of your mistake," he said, glaring up at the man. "I do hope this follows you for the rest of your life." Then, without looking at Alfred—Arthur could feel the stare—he said, "let the man go, now. He'll think twice about ever trying again."

The moment Alfred relinquished his hold the thief was gone, scrambling away with one hand held in the other. Arthur watched him go with a strange sort of satisfaction.

"Why did you do that?"

"Hm?" Arthur turned away from the thief's retreating back to see Alfred staring at him. He couldn't discern the expression on the Nord's face. "He bloody deserved it, obviously. After what he did to that poor mare, not to mention his piss—poor attempt at stealing."

Alfred nodded, then shot Arthur another look. "I guess."

"Well, it seems we will need another horse," Arthur said, looking at the poor dead mare. "Shall we hope they'll be willing to sell us one in Riverwood?"

"We'll figure something out," Alfred said, shrugging and smiling. 

Arthur huffed. "We'll be lucky if they don't shoot us on sight."

" _You're_  the one who stole the horse."

Rolling his eyes, Arthur returned to their little cave, preparing to pack up and be on their way. "And you were with me, meaning you're an accomplice. I hope that armour of yours can stop arrows." At least they would likely only be, at the most, iron or wooden arrows. Arthur had been shot by those more times than he could count. Of course, he'd prefer not to get shot at all, but small villages tended not to react kindly to their horses being stolen. "Not sure why we couldn't bypass the town completely."

"We need supplies and there aren't really any other towns so close to Skybound Pass." Alfred had joined him in the cave, packing up his own bedroll. "I'm sure it'll be fine! Worst case scenario, we pay 'em back!"

Arthur scowled. "Absolutely not." That sounded like an apology, or at least the pretence of one, and Arthur never apologized for stealing something. He was firmly of the belief that if one couldn't hold on to something, then one deserved to have it taken from them. It was a belief partially conditioned by his time in the Thieves Guild, naturally, but for the most part it came from having three older brothers who were absolutely cutthroat when it came to personal possessions and gifts. There was a particular incident involving a sweet roll . . .

Shaking his head, Arthur began outfitting himself with his weapons. Behind him, Alfred was getting ready as well, dressing himself in his armour with practiced ease. One of the good things about his Dark Brotherhood armour, Arthur realized, was that it was designed to be worn at all times, including while sleeping. At least Alfred's armour seemed to be designed to come on and off quickly; it mostly appeared to be held together by easy-access straps. It was honestly a marvelous feat of craftsmanship, where in the Void had he  _gotten_  it? It was custom-made, clearly, considering it fit Alfred perfectly, and while Arthur wasn't really much of a smith aside from quick repairs and the occasional dagger, he couldn't help but be impressed.

“What’s the issue with paying them back?” Arthur jolted, flushing when he realized he’d been staring at Alfred as the man donned his armour. “I mean, I have the septims to spare, and I’m sure that if we run out of money we’ll find _some way_ to get more.”

“If something is stolen, then it’s stolen, unless you manage to get it back yourself.” Arthur bent down to grab his cloak, wrapping it around his shoulders and fastening it with his broach. “I’m not going to be charitable just because the horse was so easy to steal.” The sun had barely risen, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and that didn’t appear to be changing, so Arthur pulled the hood up on his cloak to shield his eyes from sunlight. “As you say, we’ll figure something out. It’s entirely possible that they won’t even recognize us.”

♠       ♠       ♠             

As is turned out, they were immediately recognized.

“I hate being arrested,” Arthur said under his breath, glaring at Alfred out of the corner of his eye as a group of guards led them into the city. “There’s no dignity in this.”

“It’s better than being shot on sight,” Alfred hissed back. “Quit complaining and let’s hope they don’t make a huge deal out of this, Alaric is gonna bust my balls if he’s gotta bail us out of this.”

It was humiliating, being led like this. Their weapons had been taken (although they hadn’t found the tiny dagger in Arthur’s boot) and the horse was being led by another guard. Or, well, the guard was _trying_ to lead her along. Liberty was being difficult, pulling in various directions, occasionally just refusing to move entirely. It was almost endearing.

“Quit lollygagging, we don’t have all day,” one of the guards snapped, brandishing a blade at them.

Arthur scowled at her, picking up the pace nonetheless. “We should have just come in the night and _stolen_ those supplies,” he said, elbowing Alfred in the side. His hands were tied together with rope; annoying, but at least he still had access to his magic. Rope was quite easy to get out of. “We wouldn’t have to deal with this, nor would we have to spend any money.”

“Your solution to a problem you got us into by stealing is to do _more stealing_?”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur gave Alfred a glare, ignoring the unimpressed raised eyebrows he got in return. “It would have worked, and that’s what matters.” He tugged at the rope twisted around his wrists. It was an impressive knot, impossible to slip out of without a bit of effort. “Ugh, I hate being tied up like this. It’s bloody humiliating.”

“Oi!” A different guard, this one large and muscular (larger than Alfred, but then, Alfred was actually quite slim barring all the muscle and the broad shoulders and _why was Arthur thinking about this_ ) came up between them, pushing them apart roughly. Arthur caught himself before he stumbled, giving the man a withering glare. “Quit chatting! This ain’t a stroll through a meadow!” He sneered at Arthur, eyes catching on the ears when they flicked in annoyance, lip curling. Oh, bloody great, the man was racist as well as an arse.

“Bro, we’re just bored—“

“Shut up!”

The rest of their walk to the centre of the town passed in uncomfortable, tense silence. Arthur couldn’t help glancing around, calculating the best way to get out of this. When his eyes caught Alfred’s, the man inclined his head slightly, and Arthur could tell that Alfred was doing the same. Unfortunately, there were ten guards and all Arthur had was a tiny dagger. Not exactly excellent odds. He’d had worse, but there were children here, and Arthur wasn’t exactly keen on a child getting caught up in any attempt at escape.

Once they reached the centre of the town they stopped, surrounded by guards on all sides, civilians peeking out at them and watching the spectacle.

“On your knees,” the man between them said, and Arthur grit his teeth against the sharp crack of pain when the man kicked out at the back of his knee, right where he’d been shot a few days ago. He landed with a soft thud on the haphazardly cobbled stone road, pain shooting up his thigh as his knee hit the hard surface of a stone.

Alfred barely had the chance to say, “yo, what the fuck—“ before he was being pushed down as well—albeit much less forcefully, with a hand on his armoured shoulder. Of bloody course.

A woman came to stand before them. She was tall, with pale hair and skin and work-hardened hands sitting at her hips. “You’re a couple of petty thieves,” she spit out, glaring at both of them. “You stole not only a horse, but also the septims of our healer!”

“Technically, he’s the thief, not me,” Alfred said with a blinding grin. Arthur wanted to kill him.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow at the woman looming over them. “If she didn’t want her coins stolen, she shouldn’t have left them so out in the open. I can’t be faulted for her poor decisions.” The woman opened her mouth to speak, but Arthur continued, “and there was nobody guarding the horses, which is just asking for someone to steal them.”

“Shut your mouth, Wood-Elf,” she growled. “You’ve done nothing but cause trouble for our village and so you’re going to do something to help us instead.”

“We aren’t paying you back,” Arthur said automatically. Beside him, Alfred rolled his eyes.

Surprisingly, the woman shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. We’ll earn back the money. What we need from you is something more specialized.” Her eyes dragged over them both. “You both look like capable fellows. Men who can deal with bandits.” Well, this wasn’t going anywhere good, Arthur could tell that already. “There is an important artifact that was stolen from us by bandits a few weeks ago. You’re to go and bring it back.”

Arthur did not _fetch_ things for people. Unless he was getting paid good money for it; even then, most of the time he didn’t bother.

“A couple of our guards will be accompanying you to ensure that you get the job done and return the artifact,” the woman said. “If the task isn’t completed, you can be sure you’ll have a bounty in all of Whiterun Hold.”

“Sure, we’ll do it,” Alfred said, and Arthur whipped his head to the side to glare at him. They most certainly would _not_! Arthur was the Dragonborn and he was supposed to be having a bloody conversation with the Greybeards about what exactly that meant, not gallivanting through Skyrim as an apology for stealing! “Can’t be too hard, right?”

The woman snorted derisively. “Oh, you’ll see just how hard it is, boy.”

“Hang on, I haven’t agreed to anything yet!”

A boot suddenly hit between Arthur’s shoulder blades, knocking him forward, face nearly pressing into the dirt before he stopped himself. “You’d better agree to it,” said the guard who’d kicked him. Oh, great, it was the racist one. Of course it bloody was. “Or you’ll be sitting locked up in Dragonsreach Dungeon for ages.”

Well, fuck.

“Tuldir and Frodas will be joining you on this,” the woman said. “You’ll be setting out immediately,” damn, that meant no sneaking away while the village was asleep, “and they’ll fill you in as you leave.” Then her eyes narrowed. “And the golden horse is staying with us. She’ll be returned to you when you come back with the artifact.”

“Huh? You can’t do that!” Alfred started to stand, kneeling on one leg while his other foot pushed him up. “She’s _my horse_!”

‘’Then you’d better be successful.” And with that, she turned away and stormed off, leaving the two of them surrounded by a circle of guards and curious civilians.

It was silent, for a moment. Then Alfred huffed, frustrated, and said jovially, “well, this sucks dick.”

Arthur curled his lip. “Quite.”

“Get up, you two,” the guard said, voice gruff. “We’ve got about a day’s hard ride to Bleak Falls Barrow and I ain’t gonna be happy if we’re riding past nightfall.” He grabbed Arthur’s cloak and hauled him up—nearly choking Arthur in the process, of course—and stood with his arms crossed while Alfred stood up by himself. “We’ll prepare a couple o’ horses for you.”

“ _You’re_ not actually coming with us, are you?” Arthur rubbed his neck where the damn cloak had pulled against. Was it a rule that most Nords were horribly annoying racist idiots?

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m Tuldir. I’m comin’ with you whether you like it or not.”

Sithis damn him. “Wonderful. Why is it that I so often find myself in the company of meatheads?” Arthur didn’t wait for a response, although Tuldir certainly looked like he was going to give one. “Let’s just get on with this, shall we? I have business to attend to.” He headed in the direction he knew the stables were, still tugging ineffectually against the rope binding his wrists together. Before he’d even gotten two steps he heard the soft, metallic scraping of a sword being pulled from its sheath and sighed. Horribly annoying, _overly suspicious_ racist idiots.

When Arthur glanced back, Tuldir was carrying around a massive greatsword, face red and strained, the tendons in his neck popping out. Obviously overcompensating for something, using a sword too big for him. Arthur thought about saying something—instead, he just rolled his eyes and kept moving.

“So, what’s this thing you lost?” Alfred asked, apparently fine with making conversation. “I mean, it’s gotta be something special, but what is it? A gemstone? Some badass sick awesome weapon? Magical enchanted thingy?”

Tuldir grunted. “It’s something _we’ll_ know when we see it. You two are only coming as fodder for the bandits.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, even though he was two paces ahead and Tuldir couldn’t see it. Guards were always of the opinion that they were stronger and better than everyone else. Well, it would certainly be interesting to prove Tuldir wrong. That might be the only joy he’d get out of this ridiculous detour.

“Wait, you can’t seriously think _we’re_ bandit fodder, right? I mean, have you seen us fight? We’re freaking badasses, man.”

Tuldir scoffed. “You’re underestimating these bandits, obviously. Just wait until you get into an actual fight with them.” There was a slight bit of exertion in his voice, just the smallest strain. From the damn sword, no doubt.

Glancing over his shoulder, Arthur noticed that despite being physically larger than Alfred—it was much more obvious when they were walking next to one another—Tuldir was rounder, less muscle on his frame than his size might imply. And it was difficult to explain, but Tuldir’s physical _presence_ was nothing compared to Alfred’s. There was something in the way they held themselves that really set Alfred apart.

Oh, Azura damn him, he was thinking about Alfred again. Arthur flushed, but tossed back a, “I’m wondering how _you’ll_ fare in a proper fight, considering you can barely carry that sword without sweating like a Nord in the Summerset Isles.”

He was expecting it when Tuldir grabbed his cloak again. “Listen here, _Elf_ ,” he grunted, sounding more like a pig than a man, spinning Arthur around so they were facing each other. Leaning down, Tuldir, glared at Arthur through the slits in his helmet, beady brown eyes furious, meaty fist clenching so tightly around Arthur’s cloak that his knuckles were white. “You better watch your fucking tongue before I cut it out.” Flecks of spittle sprayed on Arthur’s face with each word.

Arthur had never been less afraid of anyone in his life.

“I wouldn’t do anything of the sort, were I you,” Arthur said in a low voice. The Dragon’s power rose within him, heat and energy, furious and dangerous, and Arthur let the power show in his eyes. “Let me go.”

Tuldir stepped back like he’d been burned, hand dropping to his side, the other one tightening around his sword. “You’re lucky we need your skinny arse to get the Claw,” he growled.

Hm. It was an easy trick; get someone frustrated enough, and they’ll be distracted and let something slip they were trying to keep secret. It worked especially well on brainless idiots. And Tuldir had been so simple, blurting out the bit about the Claw. Arthur narrowed his eyes. Just what was this Claw? Something important? Or something _valuable_?

Arthur gave Tuldir the hint of a smile, dangerous and intimidating, reveling in the split-second of fear that flashed on the man's face. “Lucky indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man sorry for just. not working on this for forever. i don't even have much of an excuse i was busy but not busy enough to justify it i'm just the worst at motivation
> 
> anyway, we're just barely starting to get into things. still a few more chapters until interesting stuff starts to happen and more hetalia characters are introduced (seriously in a little while my other favourite character is getting introduced which is gonna be fun to write) but i hope adventuring escapades and arguing/flirting are enough for now ;)


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